


Sebastian vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda

by Tea_For_One_Please



Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda, Blackmail, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, High School, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love Confessions, Love Simon AU, M/M, Miscommunication, One-Sided Attraction, Outing, Parallels, Rather than the movie, Requited Love, Ricky Bowen is Jewish because it's my story, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_For_One_Please/pseuds/Tea_For_One_Please
Summary: Blackmailed and threatened with exposure, sixteen-year-old Seb is forced to choose between being a pawn in a manipulative game, or risking being publicly outed and losing his very distracting, anonymous pen pal.
Relationships: Ricky Bowen/Nini Salazar-Roberts, Seb Matthew-Smith/Carlos Rodriguez
Comments: 70
Kudos: 131





	1. Blackmail

It’s a weirdly subtle conversation; so subtle, in fact, that I barely notice the blackmail. I’m just on my phone, backstage, waiting for Miss Jenn to end our rehearsal break when EJ Caswell sidles over. I glance up, mildly irritated – I’d really rather be left alone, but now EJ’s spinning a folding chair around and sitting on it like a “cool” teacher, his gangly legs straddling the back of the chair. Not that I want to imagine EJ Caswell straddling anything.

“Hey, Seb,” EJ says, and my guard is instantly up. Only my close friends and family get to call me Seb, and although I don’t hate the guy, EJ is by no means my friend. “So, I feel I should tell you that I read your email.”

I look blankly at him. “What?”

“By accident, obviously,” EJ adds, with a nervous-sounding laugh. “I mean, I logged into the library computer right after you, but your email was already on the screen.” It’s at this point that I feel panic twist a knot in my gut.

“You read my emails?”

“It’s okay,” he smiles. Somehow that’s not reassuring, and as if to prove the point, he says, “I thought you might be interested to know that I have an older brother who’s gay, so I’m okay with it.”

“I’m not really interested in what you think, EJ.”

“It’s actually pretty cool,” he goes on, as if I said nothing. “You should live your truth.” I have to laugh at the irony of this guy giving me advice on coming out, or whatever.

“Yeah, okay.” I look back at my phone and wait for him to leave, assuming that this conversation is over, but he doesn’t move. “What?” I sigh, now thoroughly sick of EJ’s presence.

“Chill,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just wanted to, you know, reassure you that I’m not gonna show anyone.”

“Show any…” It takes a second to sink in. “Hold on, did you take a _picture_ of my emails?”

“Not all of them,” he says, as if this in any way justifies it. “Anyway, you’re friends with Nini Salazar-Roberts, right?” The sudden tangent throws me, and I take a second to recover. “You think you could, you know, introduce us properly?”

“Or maybe we could talk about you taking a fucking picture of my emails?”

“Look, Seb,” he says, and I bristle with annoyance. “I like this girl. I just think we’re in a position to help each other.”

“What, you want me to put in a good word for you?”

“Something like that – invite me to stuff she’s going to, that sort of thing.”

“Why the hell should I do that?” He bites his lip like he’s anxious, and suddenly it clicks. “Oh my god.” He _cannot_ be serious. “Or you’ll leak my emails? Put them on the fucking East High Confessions page?”

“Seb, it’s not that deep,” he says with an uneasy chuckle. “Will you do it or not?”

“Do I have a choice?” I ask furiously, and he kind of shrugs.

“Has anyone seen EJ?” calls a voice from the next room. It’s Miss Jenn; we must be starting up again. “EJ Caswell?”

I run my hands through my hair desperately. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He stands and folds up the chair. “Just think about it,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. The contact makes me cringe.

“Yeah, because this is totally something I want to be part of,” I say sarcastically. He looks back and offers me a minute shrug.

“Up to you,” he says and disappears out of the door. Suddenly my mind flashes to Churro and my heart stops.

“Wait!” I call, and he reappears, leaning far too casually against the doorframe. “I’ll see what I can do.”

His face lights up. It’s almost a shame: he’d be cute if he weren’t such an asshole. “You’re the best, Seb,” he beams, and I force a very venomous smile back. “One more thing,” he asks. “Who’s Churro?”

“No one,” I say, as neutrally as I can. “He lives in Pennsylvania.” He shrugs again, and disappears as Miss Jenn calls his name again.

I suddenly feel dirty, like I’m an accessory to some sort of felony. The frustrating thing is, if he were just exposing me, I probably wouldn’t care all that much. I mean, no one knows that I’m gay, but if I were to come out, it’d wouldn’t be the end of the world. My family are a bit peculiar, but fairly chill, and I know my friends would stick by me. But the thing is, I don’t know what it would mean for Churro, and that’s why I’m cautious.

Obviously, ‘Churro’ is not his real name. And he doesn’t live in Pennsylvania, I just told EJ that to throw him off the scent. Churro’s a junior at East High, just like me. Our emails started as a result of the Instagram page, which I should probably explain.

So, about a year and a half ago, someone at school opened a confessions page on Instagram for East High, where people could submit confessions and gossip to be posted anonymously. It was a hit, unsurprisingly, and it’s been running ever since. No one knows who actually runs it, but pretty much anything goes. The teachers hate it, but there’s nothing they can really do about it. Although Jordan Parks and Lisa Kowalski got in pretty serious shit when someone posted that they’d seen them having sex in the school swimming pool, which security footage later confirmed. The school was buzzing for weeks after that one, but to be honest, they deserved it, because that’s _nasty_.

But yeah. At the beginning of September, someone posted something which caught my attention. It wasn’t spicy gossip, or a big emotional confession or anything like that, just a few lines of strangely poetic text, talking about the distance between people, and how you can know everything about a person and not know them at all. Talking about how lonely he felt. Talking about how exposed and hidden he felt about the fact that he’s gay. Obviously that last line caught my attention, but the rest was so simple, yet so moving, that I left a comment saying, “ _ALL OF THIS_ ” (yeah, in all caps), along with a secret email address. I just had to know him.

I spent the next few days with my heart in my mouth, wondering whether or not he’d contact me. Good news – he did! And we’ve emailed at least every second day since. They started pretty short as we got to know each other – avoiding identifying details such as names of friends and stuff – but they’ve started getting longer lately, and frankly I feel like I’m getting to know him really well.

And yeah, it’s probably time to acknowledge that I call him Churro. I know it seems dorky, and I have no idea why he chose it, but I think it’s kind of sweet – like him. Like actual churros. There’s probably a clue in there somewhere as to his identity, but I’m not much of a puzzle-solver, which is why my own pseudonym is, well, a little less cryptic. In the moment of sending the first email, I panicked and chose ‘Flounder’. You know in _The Little Mermaid_ , there’s the crab (not a lobster, contrary to popular belief) and the fish? Sebastian (my name) is the crab, and… yeah. I know, it wouldn’t exactly need Sherlock Holmes to figure it out, but I figured that the link’s only obvious if you’re looking for it.

Right?

Anyway, I also know that Churro’s quite a private person – private enough to not be an idiot and leave his email open on a public computer – and I can guess how he’d react if he found out someone else has read our emails. I’m fairly certain he’d freak out, in a totally Churro way. By which I mean he’d stop emailing. I can’t let that happen. I may not know who he is, but I know this much – I’ve never had such a meaningful, honest, intimate friendship before, and I can’t lose him. I just can’t.

So, if that means I go along with EJ Caswell’s manipulative scheme, so be it. That said, it’s going to be tricky to show Nini that EJ’s a catch, since I sort of can’t stand him anymore. But I think we’re past that point, to be honest.

I emerge into the drama room, and Nini flings herself at me.

“Seb, thank god you’re back,” she says, her eyes wide. “I’m in Natalie hell here.” I offer an empathetic smile – Natalie Bagley is in charge of props and costumes, and let’s just say she’s not exactly the most fun person around. I glance across the room and see EJ looking pointedly at Nini, and I hastily look away again.

“What’s the problem?” I say innocently. “Are you telling me you already knew that if you break a prop, you have to replace it?”

“No, I actually had no idea,” she says, her sincerity as false as mine. “That’s why we need her to tell us these things. Every. Damn. Rehearsal.” I laugh, mind still partially on EJ, as Miss Jenn claps her hands and calls us to order.

“I’d like to take the scene from the top, please,” she announces, and Nini, EJ and a few others troop obediently onto the platform. “Sebastian, if you would?”

I’m sort of the unofficial pianist for the rehearsals, and have been for the last two shows as well, and I don’t really know why. I mean, I’m pretty good, but it does cause problems whenever I have to be onstage. Which, since we’re doing _Beauty and the Beast_ this year and I’m playing Lumière, happens quite frequently. Miss Jenn doesn’t seem to mind using backing tracks when this happens, and frankly I don’t know why she doesn’t just use a backing track all the time. But that’s none of my business, I just do as I’m told.

“Okay people,” she says loudly, addressing those on the platform, “remember, this is a market. Haggle. Argue. Examine items. Hell, buy crap from each other, if you really want.” We chuckle at that – Miss Jenn is moderately chill for a teacher. “Marshall, anything to add?” I glance over at our stage manager and can’t help but smile. I’ll be the first to admit (to absolutely no one) that I lowkey have a crush on Marshall Dixon. He’s a junior, like me, and it’s kind of funny to me that his job is to boss us around and tell us what we’re doing wrong, when he’s basically the sweetest guy I know. His voice is deeper than mine, but still soft, and his brown hair’s sort of fluffy, and curls slightly at the edges. He transferred here from England a couple of years ago, and he hasn’t lost his accent. It’s really cute. _He’s_ really cute.

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, and I bite my lips to hold back a goofy smile. He flicks through the four-inch-thick binder that is his copy of the script (meticulously annotated) and runs his eyes over a few pages near the front. “Just watch your cues,” he says thoughtfully. “Don’t get in each other’s way unless it’s directed.” Miss Jenn nods approvingly, before gesturing towards me at the piano. I force my eyes away from Marshall, aware that I’m staring. But the way he smiled when we made eye contact doesn’t leave my head.

As I start to play the first few bars, I see EJ gazing at Nini from the wings. The irony of them respectively playing Gaston and Belle is not lost on me. I roll my eyes and try to forget about him, although that’s easier said than done. For the rest of the rehearsal, I’m pretty sure I’m playing the right notes, but my mind is a whirlwind of EJ, Nini, Marshall and Churro. By the time Miss Jenn dismisses us, I’m so ready to get out of there that I almost forget I promised Nini a ride home.

“That was a disaster,” Nini sighs as she sinks into the passenger seat.

“It didn’t look too bad to me,” I say, which is admittedly generous. “You did well.” Now that _is_ true. She’s freaking awesome.

“Well, thanks,” she says, turning and smiling at me as her seatbelt _clicks_ in. I swing the car out of its space and we commiserate about the rehearsal on the way. “How did the scene with EJ seem?”

My heart jolts, and I try to come up with something that sounds fairly neutral. “Fine, I think.”

“He’s a good actor,” she says in an offhand manner, as she frowns at her phone. “I really got the sense of the way Gaston feels about Belle, you know?” I grip the steering wheel a little tighter and give an ambiguous hum.

“What do you think of EJ, anyway?” I ask, trying to be casual. Might as well see the lie of the land, right?

“He’s okay,” she shrugs. “Seems kind of sweet.” Did I just throw up in my mouth a little? I’m saved from having to think of a reply as I pull up to her house. “Thanks for the lift,” she says, smiling as she gets out of the car. “See you on Monday?”

“Sure thing. Usual time?”

“See you then.” She gives a little salute as she closes the door, and I give a tiny toot of the horn as I pull away and swing the car around, heading for Ricky’s house.

It’s kind of our designated hangout zone – Gina’s apartment is pretty tiny, and my family’s too big to get any real privacy. When I get there, I go straight down to the basement through the external door, where Gina and Ricky are playing Fortnite, of all things, and drinking what looks like thick milkshakes from large takeout cups, marked _Chick-Fil-A_ on the side. I used to love their caramel milkshakes, but then my sister Heather found out they donate money to anti-gay organisations, and I’ve not even been inside since. Not that Ricky and Gina know that – I don’t talk about gay stuff with anyone. Except Churro.

They seem to be taking turns, because Gina’s the only one with a controller, but Ricky seems equally invested.

“You got this,” he says, quietly but with intensity.

“I know I got this,” she snaps. “I didn’t get to the last five because I’m average.”

“Look, south-west, there’s a supply crate,” he says urgently.

“I know,” she says through gritted teeth. I’m pretty sure they haven’t even seen me come in. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m sort of being shot at.”

“There’s a sentence that carried a lot more weight a century ago,” I say loudly, and they both jump.

“Hey, Seb,” Gina calls, not looking away from the screen. “Be right with – _fuck!_ ” Her character collapses to the ground, sniped by an unknown nemesis. She tosses the controller crossly into Ricky’s lap and spins her chair around to face me. “How was rehearsal?” I grimace, and she shoots me a sympathetic look. “That bad?”

“Thank god we’re still three months from opening night,” I say gloomily.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Ricky says with disgust, pointing his remote at the TV and switching it off. “Eighty-sixth.”

“Oof,” I say, amused, flopping onto a beanbag behind their lounger chairs. “Even I know that’s bad.” I have, like, no interest in video games, so that’s really saying something. Turning back to Gina, I say, “I mean, on an individual level? I feel like the scenes are coming together. I think we just need to learn to work together more.”

“I had a dream I auditioned for the play last night,” Ricky says suddenly, spinning his chair around too.

“Really?” Gina says in surprise. “You do _not_ strike me as a theatre kid.”

“It was weird.” He nods in agreement. “So I think we were doing _Grease_ ,” he goes on, scrunching up his nose as he tries to remember.

“What, because that’s the only musical you’ve ever seen?” I ask sarcastically, and he ignores me.

“And I think I auditioned for the main guy. What’s his name, Seb?”

“Danny.”

“Right, Danny.” He nods gravely.

“Did you get it?” Gina asks, actually sounding interested.

“No, I don’t think so.” His voice is distant and he hugs a pillow to his chest, frowning. “What do you think it means?”

“That you and I were talking about my rehearsal ten minutes before you went to bed, probably,” I suggest, and he shakes his head, reaching for his guitar and plucking a melody absently at the strings.

“Could be something about wanting to break out of my shell,” he reflects, “or trying something new.” Gina and I exchange an identical look of wistful amusement, because Ricky becomes weirdly attractive in the rare moments when he gets existential. Of course, it’s not a problem for me, because thankfully, I’ve known Ricky for far too long to be even remotely interested in him that way. Ricky and I met in the first week of kindergarten, when we realised we had the same Spider-Man lunchbox. When you’re five, that either means you become best friends or mortal enemies, and fortunately for us it was the former. Gina, however, is a different story.

Gina moved to Salt Lake City when we were in sixth grade, and back in middle school I was that boy who was always asked to show the new kid around. Generally it kind of sucked, because the kids were super weird, but Gina turned out to be pretty cool. I introduced her to Ricky, and she sort of stuck. I often forget that she ‘joined late’, as it were. I hope she’s forgotten too. When it comes to Ricky, though, I’m about 90% sure she’s fallen hard, and I think that’s why she gets so testy around Nini.

That’s the other complication – Ricky is completely head-over-heels for Nini, which is more than a little irritating. I genuinely wouldn’t care too much if they got together, but Ricky can get really annoying when he gets a crush. He gets all nervous and antsy, and it manifests itself in weird ways. Like in seventh grade when he had a crush on Annie Richards: he asked her to the spring dance, and astonishingly, she said yes, but then he didn’t show up. Said he freaked out and couldn’t go through with it, but unsurprisingly, girls didn’t exactly queue up to date him for the rest of middle school.

As Gina and Ricky settle into a debate about whether or not dreams are unconscious wish fulfilment, I ponder the situation with them, Nini, EJ and Churro. To be honest, this could work out quite well without me even having to do much. If EJ and Nini start dating, Ricky will get over her, and then (hopefully) Gina will get over him. Then Gina and Nini will have no problems with each other, the whole group dynamic will go back to normal, and my secret is safe.

So I guess none of this is really about me at all.

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 25 th, 7:54pm_

_I gotta say, I’m surprised, Churro. In my (limited) experience most people get their sexual awakening from like cartoons or movies, or something like that, rather than meeting their cousin’s fiancé, but I’m totally not judging you, especially considering what I’m about to tell you._

_Since you asked… okay, did you ever see the movie_ Kingsman: the Secret Service _? I saw it for the first time when I was like 13. My dad showed it to me and one of my sisters, which was a terrible idea as I’m pretty sure it’s R-rated. I remember having some very vivid nightmares based on THAT scene in the church. If you haven’t seen it, look it up on YouTube, it’s pretty graphic._

_ANYWAY in case you haven’t seen it, there’s a scene where Taron Egerton walks out of a plane in a suit, and does this little smug smile, and good god. I don’t know how I knew, but I was like, “shit, I sort of want to kiss him??” Except I didn’t curse back then, so it was probably more like “dang” or “crap”._

_I realise this experience isn’t universal, but even after that moment I ended up having girlfriends. That was a disaster. First I dated this girl I vaguely knew – I say dated. It was that seventh-grade sort of relationship where you “date” for like three weeks and don’t really do anything except hold hands._

_Then in eighth grade I went out with one of my friends for like two months, until one of her friends told me she was waiting for me behind the shed where they keep the sports equipment. I think I was supposed to go and kiss her, but I freaked out and never showed. She dumped me the next day, which I think was fair._

_On that note I’m going to sign off here and let you laugh at my shame. Had kind of a weird day._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_October 26 th, 7:32am_

_I’m not sure what to tell you, to be honest: I think middle school was awful for everyone. It’s not as though navigating the complex maze of social hierarchies was easy anyway. Then if you throw puberty and wild hormone swings into the mix, it’s a miracle anyone made it to ninth grade at all._

_Also, weren’t we all just_ awful _to each other back then? It was as though we were incapable of acknowledging that anyone else had feelings except us, and would shut down anyone who dared express them. I know I did it too, and cringe whenever I remember how I used to be at that age._

_This might seem like an obvious question, but even so: if you’d already figured out that you liked boys, why did you still have girlfriends?_

_Sorry to hear about your weird day._

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 26 th, 5:58pm_

_God, we were horrible. I like to imagine that I skipped everything between fifth grade and ninth grade, it saves me a lot of embarrassment. Shame no one else has the decency to imagine the same thing._

_And I don’t know really. I know that’s kind of a lame answer. I guess I thought maybe it was a phase? Or that if I tried being straight, I’d stop having these weird feelings that made me want to stare at the other boys in the locker rooms. I hate that I just admitted that I do that. I’m going to go and hide my face in my pillow._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_October 27 th, 12:26pm_

_Avoidance is a perfectly valid strategy for dealing with trauma, I think. If you want to tell people you skipped four grades, who am I to stop you?_

_I suppose that makes sense, although I don’t personally relate to that, if I’m being honest. Continuing with the theme of honesty, I’ve never actually dated anyone, or done anything at all, as it happens. Is that really sad? To be sixteen years of age and to never have even taken part in a game of Spin the Bottle? I suppose it’s partly because these big parties aren’t really my scene anyway._

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 27 th, 4:16pm_

_You know what? I needed this validation. Thanks, Churro. Also, phrasing it like that makes me seem like a super-genius, which is pretty cool, even if it’s totally untrue._

_And no, that’s not lame at all. I’ve only had one kiss, it was with a girl, and it was NOT enjoyable._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_October 28 th, 7:42am_

_Then a super-genius it is. And maybe you need to stop kissing girls, Flounder. Just saying._

_Churro_


	2. The Ones We Care For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb tries to keep his life as normal, while EJ's manipulative ploy starts to impact his life in more ways than one.

By the time my dad calls me to tell me to come home, I’m actually relieved. I love hanging out with Ricky and Gina, but with the rehearsal, and EJ – it’s all been a bit much, and I’m looking forward to shutting myself in my room, putting on music and hiding from the world for a little while.

Before that, though, I have to get through dinner. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, and I know I’m really lucky that I get along with them (most of the time, anyway). But with four other siblings and both my parents, conversation during meals can get pretty intense and a little overwhelming, with pressure to talk to everyone, and up to three different conversations going at once. I may just have to zone out and hope no one notices.

As I come through the back door into our kitchen and kick off my shoes, my mom emerges from behind the counter and frowns at me.

“Where have you been? I’ve been texting you.”

“Have you?” I ask, genuinely surprised. Taking out my phone, I scroll through my messages. “I don’t think you have.”

“Huh,” she says, placing a pot down on the table. “I’ve been texting someone else then. Whoops,” she says with a shrug, returning to the stove. “You’re still late,” she adds. “Bread.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say apologetically, taking a basket down from the top of the refrigerator and emptying seven bread rolls into it. “I went to Ricky’s after rehearsal. I lost track of time. Sorry.” She lets out a quiet hum, and I understand that I’m forgiven, but to be more thoughtful next time. It’s a routine we go through quite often. Heather comes through the doorway, and I pass her the breadbasket. “Put that on the table, will you?”

“Do it yourself,” she says, walking straight past me. I suck in my cheeks and force myself not to swear at her while my mom’s there. I know I said I get along with my family, but Heather is pretty much the exception. She’s the second oldest after me, and she just started at East High, and I don’t know what it is, but we’ve never really seen eye to eye. It probably doesn’t help her that except for being a girl, she’s basically a copy-paste of me physically, so throughout her entire school life, she’s been ‘Sebastian’s little sister’. We both look like our mom, and the other three look more like our dad, so they don’t have the same problem.

That said, they don’t have the same problem with each other either, so who knows what the issue between me and Heather is.

Now, though, my mom intervenes on my side. “Heather, just put the bread on the table and call the others for dinner.” Funnily enough, she doesn’t argue.

She takes the basket and yells into the hall, “Dinner!” at the top of her voice, earning her a disapproving frown from my mom as my dad comes in through the back door, remarking about a banshee. Shortly afterwards, my other siblings troop into the kitchen and swarm around the table. Okay, ‘swarm’ is an exaggeration, there’s only five of us including me and Heather. But nine-year-old twins Patrick and Tina, together with five-year-old Caleb, have enough energy for ten normal people, and in a fairly small dining room it does seem more like a swarm.

My mom passes around bread rolls, as my dad ladles soup into bowls, asking Patrick and Tina about their days. Patrick pipes up first, elaborating on how they played basketball in P.E., and insisting that he was better at it than Tina, which she immediately refutes. Meanwhile, my mom talks with Heather, who bemoans a write-up card for something that one of her classmates apparently did. Caleb, who’s clearly overtired, drops a lump of cheese into his soup and tries to fish it out with his fingers. He then promptly starts to cry, startled by the hot soup on his hands. Normally I would help him, but honestly there’s far too much going on in the room for me to cope with, so I just put my head down and start eating, while my dad grabs a towel and wipes Caleb clean, kissing his hand to stop his tears.

“Sebastian, how was your rehearsal?” my mom asks after a little while, and I curse internally.

“It was fine,” I shrug. Then, knowing this will never suffice, I add, “The girl who organises our props nearly had a stress hernia because someone dropped a plastic apple and it rolled off the stage.” This gets a laugh, predictably – who doesn’t love a shamelessly embellished anecdote? In case it wasn’t obvious, my family’s kind of dramatic. In fact, it’s genuinely surprising that I’m the only one who’s actually interested in theatre.

“And how were Richard and Regina?” my dad asks, because referring to them as their full names is about as funny as he gets.

“They’re okay,” I say. “By the way, it’s okay for me to go to Big Red’s Halloween party next Friday, right?”

“Who else is going?” my mom asks suspiciously.

“Is he the gay one?” my dad asks simultaneously. I don’t even know who to answer first.

“Mom – Ricky, Gina and Nini, and some other people in my grade. Dad – what the hell? Big Red isn’t gay.”

“He’s the ginger one we met once, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Of course he is!” my dad says. His voice isn’t malicious, but all the same, I totally want to vomit right now. “Did you hear his voice?” He flaps his hand. You know the way.

“Dad, stop,” Heather says incredulously. “That’s not okay.”

“Oh, come on,” he says with an easy smile. “Relax, would you? It’s just a joke.” I say nothing. It might just be a joke to him, but it hurts. And God knows what Tina, Patrick and Caleb are taking from this conversation. Keen to swerve the conversation back into safer territory, I give them a few more details about my rehearsal and the party, then thankfully, I’m left alone for the remainder of the meal.

Once the table’s cleared and the dishwasher’s loaded, I slip quietly out of the kitchen and retreat to my attic bedroom, thankful to finally be alone. In a house so full of people, it’s nice to have a moment or two of peace. I flop down on my bed, and hear an argument start to build up between the twins just below me. I groan and grab my earbuds, and hit shuffle on my chilled music. ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues’ by Elton John comes on, and I smile slightly as I close my eyes – this was the song I was listening to when I came up with the email address I use to talk to Churro.

Honestly, the thing that sucks hardest about this whole EJ thing is that I can’t discuss it with Churro. Like I said earlier, if he were to find out someone read our emails… well, I don’t want to think about what that might mean for us. Which is a shame, because if it didn’t bother him so much, I could just tell EJ to go fuck himself, and we could come out publicly before he had a chance to post our emails.

Not that I’m blaming Churro for being so cautious, because frankly I don’t want people to know yet either. I guess I just wish I’d been more careful about which computers I used to check my emails. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say. With a sigh, I open the email app on my phone and brighten slightly when I see that he’s replied. I send quite a long reply, hoping to convey my emotions without actually telling him what’s happened. Once I’ve hit send, I lock my phone and curl up, hugging my old stuffed seal, Marco (Heather used to have an identical one called Polo) and vaguely imagining Marshall Dixon opening up the email, his dark brown eyes wrinkled in the corners as he smiles.

It’s at times like these that I really, really wish I knew for certain who he was. I could just call him and know that he would answer, rather than just sitting and waiting for a reply. I could go over to his house and hug him instead of this old soft toy, and maybe everything would be alright.

The weekend passes in a blur, as it always does, and soon enough it’s Monday again. At lunch, I head for our usual table in the cafeteria and sit down. Unfortunately, I’m the first there, and someone appears in my field of vision. “Mind if I sit?” EJ says, gesturing to the seat next to me.

“We, um… this table’s already full,” I say lamely.

“Didn’t know there was a seating chart,” he says, and sits down anyway. I don’t really know how to respond – you can’t just change where you sit in the cafeteria in October, but whatever. “Anyway, how’s it going with Nini?” I force myself not to shove my water bottle down his throat.

“I’m, uh, just laying the groundwork at the moment,” I say, inventing wildly. In truth, although Nini and I have been texting pretty regularly over the weekend, I haven’t mentioned EJ once. “Give me time, okay?” He doesn’t exactly look happy, but I think he understands that I’m not giving him anything else right now. As the regular people start approaching the table, he makes his exit, glowering at me the whole way back to his own group of friends from the water polo team. Gina throws herself down next to me and looks after EJ with distaste.

“What did he want?”

“Something about rehearsals,” I shrug. Again with the lying. I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. Gradually the table fills up, with people pulling out their packed lunches or arriving with trays of something that looks just about edible, and smells vaguely of fish.

We’re a weird bunch. There’s me, Ricky and Gina (obviously), and each of us comes with attachments, groups which would otherwise probably never have spoken to each other. First there are Ricky’s skater friends: a loud, exuberant boy known only as Big Red (who knows if he has a real name), and Carlos. Carlos is a bit of an enigma to me, to be honest. He’s basically Big Red’s polar opposite – he’s quiet, and shy, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak unless he’s prompted, but on the few times I have, he does show a bit of a mischievous streak. God only knows how he became friends with Ricky and Big Red in the first place, but that’s none of my business.

On the other side there are Gina’s friends, Ashlyn and Kourtney. The three of them watch anime together and that sort of thing. Oddly, I don’t really know them well enough to be able to say anything more than that, which is pretty terrible, especially since Ashlyn’s the girl that I ‘dated’ briefly back in eighth grade. That was a whole thing, but we’re cool now, I think. I guess it sort of proves what Churro said on the East High Confessions page, about knowing people but not knowing anything about them.

Then there’s Nini, who moved here from San Francisco over the summer, and started at East High in September. We were sort of drawn to each other when we ended up sat next to each other in homeroom, and then I found out she was in every one of my classes. Then we both signed up for the school show, and we kind of became inseparable. She’s good fun, an awesome singer and frankly, a total weirdo, which I don’t think people realise unless they spend as much time with her as Gina, Ricky and I have.

EJ certainly doesn’t know her as well as thinks he does. But as I say, whether or not I think he and Nini would make a good match is really kind of irrelevant now.

At the end of the day, I dash out to my car, hoping not to see a certain someone. Miss Jenn’s out sick, so we don’t have rehearsal, which is actually kind of a relief, as it means I don’t have to talk to EJ again until tomorrow. Gina has to go home, so it’s just me and Ricky, which is nice, as we hardly ever get to hang out together anymore. He knocks lightly on the window before pulling the door open and getting in, stowing his skateboard in the footwell.

“Gina says you basically ran out of chem,” he says, looking a little bemused. “Someone stick a firework up your ass?”

“Something like that,” I chuckle, and shake my head. “Just avoiding EJ Caswell.”

He grimaces. “Say no more.” We head to his house, and he briefly grumbles that Gina’s not there because he’s seen a trailer for a new _Star Wars_ game he wants to show her, and I genuinely could not be less interested. Once this is out of his system, we put on an episode of _Doctor Who_ , watching it in a comfortable near-silence, but I’m sort of only half-watching. My mind is flickering between the episode, thoughts of Ricky and thoughts of Churro.

Sometimes I wonder if Churro’s remarks about not knowing what goes on in people’s heads applies with me and Ricky, because there are times when I seriously have no idea what he’s thinking about. Which, for someone who talks as much as Ricky does, is sort of strange. But the thing, it’s not uncomfortable with Ricky, like it is with some people. It’s just easy, because we sort of still get each other. Like, I know that he hugs pillows when he gets anxious, and that sometimes his nervous habits leak out even when he’s feeling okay. But we never really talk about how we’re feeling. I’m fairly sure we’d both feel really awkward. I think that’s why I haven’t told him I’m gay yet. Logically, I know that he would probably just be like, “Okay, cool,” and that would be it. But I still feel nervous to tell him, simply because it’s not the kind of thing we talk about. I only know that he likes Nini because he literally could not be more obvious about it.

I guess that’s what Churro meant about everyone being more lonely than they realise. But with Ricky, it never feels lonely. It’s just easy, and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.

Having told EJ that I’m ‘laying groundwork’, I basically do nothing to further his scheme for three days. By Wednesday’s rehearsal, I can tell he’s getting a little impatient. He corners me in the alley behind the drama studio. I never see him coming. Why does he always seem to slink around everywhere like a sly cat? It’s unnerving.

“Hey, Seb,” he says, less jovially than usual.

“Go away, EJ.”

“Fine,” he shrugs. “Look, if you didn’t want to help me with Nini, all you had to do was say.”

“What, and give in to your blackmail?”

He looks affronted. “This isn’t blackmail!”

“Right,” I say, avoiding his eye and looking down at my feet. I notice with irritation that we’re wearing identical shoes, except his are easily three sizes bigger than mine. “Because we’re both getting so much out of this arrangement.”

“Seb, are we doing this or not?” he asks testily.

“Yes,” I snap. “I told you, I’m _working_ on it.”

“Would it help if you had my number?”

Is he fucking serious?

“Can I say no?” I ask weakly. He kind of shrugs. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, snatching his cell phone off him and punch in my number. He grins, and almost immediately a text buzzes my phone.

“There’s mine,” he says triumphantly. Definitely saving his contact as ‘Extreme Jackass’.

“Whatever,” I say, now thoroughly pissed off. I push past him and re-enter the drama studio, and he trails in a moment later. I slump down the wall next to Nini, who nudges me with her elbow. I offer her a tired smile.

“You okay?” she asks, her dark eyes earnest and questioning.

“Yeah. Just…” I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.” She boops my nose and smiles, and I can’t help but smile back. Like, I get it. If I were straight, it’s not implausible that I’d like her as well. But it’s just so frustrating that my life basically depends on the fact that someone else does. As though summoned by a pentagram (which would be appropriate), EJ appears in front of us and slides down the wall on Nini’s other side. She surreptitiously shifts marginally closer to me; he doesn’t seem to notice, but I do. “Hey, EJ,” I say in a slightly strangled voice. “Do you want to come to Big Red’s Halloween party on Friday night?”

“Really?” he asks, perking up. “Are you guys going?”

“Yeah,” Nini nods. “You should go, it’ll be fun,” she adds magnanimously.

“I don’t think I have anything else on,” he says. “Thanks, Seb!” I force a smile as he stands up and wanders off.

“I didn’t know you and EJ were friends,” Nini says with some surprise, which is so deeply fucking ironic that I could cry.

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 30 th, 5:47pm_

_To be honest, my family has never gone for the scary Halloween aesthetic. Our costumes were always funny or just plain weird. Sure, we put cobweb decorations in our windows and stuff, but we live in such a remote part of the city that I don’t think anyone has ever even come to our house while trick-or-treating. So really, I don’t know why we bother._

_Living so far away sort of made it difficult for us to celebrate Halloween when we were little as well, because what self-respecting nine-year-old wants to go trick-or-treating with his parents? But of course they’re making me go with my younger siblings tomorrow night, because I’m old enough to be responsible, but young enough to be cool. Just about._

_I’m going to a party on Friday, though. I always say that November 1 st should be a public holiday, so that people can go out on actual Halloween night and have the day after to recover. But I guess like this, we get to celebrate twice, so maybe it’s not so bad._

_I won’t tell you what my costume is, but it’s the perfect blend of simple and badass._

_What about you? Any wild plans?_

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _our.little.chats@gmail.com_  
_October 30 th, 7:09pm_

_Even without regular trick-or-treating, your family’s still one-up on mine – we never really did Halloween at all. My parents always maintained that Halloween, whatever its origins, was deeply-rooted in an unholy blend of witchcraft and American corporate greed. The year after they split up, my mom relented and let me go trick-or-treating. I was so excited, but she insisted that I would be far too cold in my costume, so she made me wear a sweater over it, which was super embarrassing. I think I was a little traumatised by that incident._

_I think it probably didn’t help that I was the self-respecting six-year-old who went trick-or-treating with his mom.. I’m an only child, so I’ve never had siblings to do it with, nor do I have any now to supervise, like you do. I never really warmed up to the neighbourhood kids either, and didn’t really form a solid friendship group until high school. I suppose I never really knew what I was missing, so didn’t miss it, if that makes sense?_

_These days, though, I can’t really be bothered with the whole thing. My mom’s going out anyway, so I have to stay home and distribute candy, or the neighbourhood kids will undoubtedly throw eggs at our windows, or something. With that in mind, it looks like I’m destined for an evening of_ Brooklyn Nine-Nine _and far too much frozen pizza._

_Simple and badass… Hmm, that’s a tricky riddle. Are you wrapping a bedsheet around yourself and going as a Roman emperor? I don’t know, I’m not really one for costume parties anyway._

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _our.little.chats@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 30 th, 10:22pm_

_You only ever went trick-or-treating ONCE?? Even we did it more than that! Okay, I know you said you didn’t miss it, but good LORD, Churro, I really think you did miss out. For one thing, it’s always really funny to see what other people dress up as. One year, when I was about ten, my sister went as me. Frankly, it was kind of rude. Especially because we look really similar, so several people actually criticised me for not dressing up – BECAUSE THEY THOUGHT SHE WAS ME. It was not okay, Churro._

_And I’m sorry you never had people to go trick-or-treating with, that really sucks. I’ll go with you one day._

_That said, an evening of TV and pizza sounds… pretty awesome right now, actually. I’m lowkey jealous. And a Roman emperor? That’s a decent guess, but unfortunately not. A really good idea, though. I may have to steal it for next year._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _our.little.chats@gmail.com_  
_October 31 st, 7:21am_

_Your sister went as you? I know that’s absolutely savage, but you have to admit that’s funny. If the rest of your family has as much raw sass as your sister, I like them already._

_Please don’t feel sorry for me! My mom always used to buy me candy anyway (as in, proper candy bars from a supermarket) as compensation, so who’s the real winner here?_

_Not a Roman emperor, huh? Maybe an animal? As I say, this really isn’t my thing._

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _our.little.chats@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 31 st, 8:18am_

_No, no animals. Such a good guess, but no dick._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _our.little.chats@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_October 31 st, 8:20am_

_DICE. Such a good guess, but no DICE. Ugh, this is why I never send emails from my phone. I’m going to go and hide from embarrassment now._

_Flounder_


	3. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after Halloween, Seb attends his first high school party.

If I’m honest, I’m quite nervous about the party. I’ve never been to a real high school party before, and I’m not really sure what to expect. But of course, as is always the case when you’re nervous for something, the time flies by, and all too soon, it’s Friday afternoon, rehearsal is over, and Nini and I are driving back to my house to get ready for it.

We do one piece of homework together (so that we can tell my mom that we studied before going out), then my dad sends us out to collect eggs. Nini’s ecstatic - she loves that we live on a farm. I guess it’s because she grew up in San Francisco, which is about as urban as you can get. I, however, am kind of pissed off. We’re supposed to be leaving in like forty minutes, and we haven’t eaten or got ready yet. And it’s not like we have half a dozen hens, either – no, we have ten _huts_ , spread across half an acre of the paddock. It’s not a small task. But sure, Dad, if you insist that I have to do it instead of Heather, then that’s just _fine_.

When we’ve finally finished, we dash upstairs to change. I pull on a turtleneck sweater, jeans and Docs – all black – and strap a long leather belt from my waist to my left shoulder. I then tuck a plastic samurai sword into the belt between my shoulder blades, and go to my dresser and find the ski mask I bought for our school ski trip to Colorado last spring. I pull it on, tuck it into my sweater and appraise my reflection with satisfaction. As I told Churro – simple but badass. I shove my phone in my pocket (because even a ninja needs his cell phone) and go into the hall to find Nini.

She’s still in the bathroom, so I press myself against the wall and wait. “Boo!” I almost whisper when she emerges. She jumps three inches into the air and draws back a fist, then presses a hand to her heart as I tug off the mask, laughing.

“Asshole,” she says, starting to laugh as well and punching me in the shoulder.

“Yeah, I deserved that,” I chuckle, rubbing my arm. “You look awesome, by the way.” She really does. I often forget how much of a nerd Nini is until moments like this – she’s dressed as the Doctor (not ‘Doctor Who’, _Gina_ ), and she’s gone all-out. Long grey coat, blonde wig, suspenders, everything.

“Thanks,” she grins. “You do too. Shall we?”

Even as far out of the city as we live, Big Red actually only lives a few streets away from my house, and it’s warm for early November, so we don’t bother driving. As we get closer, it becomes very obvious that this is not the kind of party I’m used to. My ideal house party generally involves no more than ten people in someone’s basement, board games, truth or dare, pizza and ice cream floats. That sort of thing. But we can hear the music from the junction with the main road, and Nini makes a remark about feeling sorry for the neighbours. I hum an affirmative, and say a silent prayer to whomever that the police don’t get called.

“Seb!” I turn at the call of my name and see Gina waving from across the street. She jogs to catch up with us and offers Nini a civil nod. “Nice costume.”

“Thanks,” she says, smiling a little nervously. She told me once that she’s kind of intimidated by Gina, and I sort of get it. I am too, sometimes.

“Ready for this?” Gina asks. She’s about as into this scene as I am.

“Not even a little bit,” I say, squeezing her hand.

“Yeah, me either.”

“Oh, come on,” Nini says with a grin. “It’ll be fun! And you might learn something about yourselves.” Gina and I give her an identical, incredulous look, then Gina gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head and we keep walking towards the house.

Ricky sees us coming from the window and greets us at the door, hugging me and gushing about Nini’s outfit. He pretends he’s less of a dork than the rest of us, but literally no one believes him. I look around and take in the crowd. It’s weird, I recognise just about everyone as students at our school, but don’t really know anybody’s names. Nini and me aside, there’s also a glaring absence of theatre kids. I’m fairly certain I’m not going to be seeing Marshall Dixon here tonight, that’s for sure.

Big Red materialises out of nowhere and hands Ricky a can of something, presumably beer. I pull off my ski mask, and his eyes light up in recognition.

“Hey guys!” he says, beaming from ear to ear. “Great to see you! Uh, a ninja, obviously,” he says, pointing at me, and then tilts his head as he looks at Nini and Gina, equally puzzled about both. “Okay, I got nothing,” he says eventually. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“The Doctor,” says Nini.

“Like from _Grey’s Anatomy_?”

“No, from _Doctor Who_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Right,” he says, clearly none the wiser. “What about you?” he says to Gina.

“Chihiro, from _Spirited Away_.” He looks blankly at her. “It’s an anime,” she says impatiently, and he nods appreciatively, even though he very obviously doesn’t have any idea what she’s talking about.

“Nice.” She rolls her eyes, but thankfully he doesn’t notice. “Can I get you some drinks? Beer, Sebastian?” I feel a little queasy at the thought, but decide to ignore my instincts.

“Sure, why not.”

“And for the ladies?” he says, with a smile that somehow manages to be both charming and suggestive.

“Good lord,” Gina mutters, but Nini pipes up.

“Gin and lemon juice, please.”

“A white lady for Doctor Who,” he says. Nini and I share a look. “Gina?”

“I’ll have an orange juice.”

“With..?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ice,” she says curtly, and he takes the hint. I look around for Ricky, but he’s disappeared somewhere.

“Coming right up,” chirps Big Red, eternally cheerful, and disappears to fetch our drinks. A vaguely uncomfortable silence falls as Gina, Nini and I are left alone.

“Hey, what the hell happened to Ricky?” Nini says, presumably in an attempt to break the tension, but Gina immediately looks even more on edge.

“Probably touching up the nearest guitar,” I say, and Gina manages a half-hearted smirk.

“Imagine having to explain how he got _those_ splinters,” she remarks, and Nini breaks into a fit of giggles. Gina looks down modestly and smiles. These girls are so weird – sometimes I feel like they’re trying to show off for each other. Nini’s still laughing when Big Red reappears, a glass in each hand and a can wedged under his arm. He passes out our drinks, and then goes to stop a group of senior boys from harassing the fish in the aquarium on the kitchen counter.

We gravitate towards a cluster of beanbag chairs in one corner of the living room, and Ricky joins us after a few minutes, predictably, carrying a guitar. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it. It’s like they just appear wherever he goes. I open the can and sip it, and cover my hand with my mouth to stop myself from spitting it out. It’s absolutely foul. Seriously, do people actually _like_ this? I mean, clearly they do – Ricky’s drinking his pretty steadily, and I’m 90% sure it’s not the same one he had when we arrived. I take another sip, and it’s marginally less disgusting. I tip it in Gina’s direction, and she gives me a withering look. Well, I thought I’d offer.

Ricky starts playing along with the music in the background, grimacing once when he strums the wrong chord. A group of girls Heather’s age (what the hell are _they_ doing here?) is watching him, and he offers them a charming smile before turning his attention back to Nini, who’s giving him the same expression as the freshman girls. Curious.

We mostly just hang out together, with Ricky and Nini leading the conversation, and me and Gina chipping in when we feel like it. As the night goes on, I feel Gina inching closer to me, clearly not altogether comfortable. I feel kind of bad that we talked her into this, but honestly? If she didn’t want to come, she wouldn’t have.

Besides, I’m not really thinking about Gina. I’m thinking about Churro. And about Marshall Dixon, who I am now absolutely certain is not here. I also… I don’t know. I’ve kind of been feeling lately like Marshall is Churro. I have no proof. No evidence of any kind, other than the fact that his hair and eyes are a dark golden-brown, like, well, a churro. It’s more of a sense than anything else. Honestly I’ve heard nothing about him being gay, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him date anyone, so it’s plausible.

I’m imagining how different this party would be if he was here. Churro, I mean. Or Marshall. Or, possibly, both. It’d be him leaning up against me, not Gina. And very possibly, Marshall could pull me out into the back yard, music fading into the background as he pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. I could run my hands through his curls, and his hands would slip under my sweater, and –

“Seb?” I jolt back to earth, and EJ’s crouched in front of me, smiling. “I’m going to get a drink, want anything?” When the hell did he get here?

“Uh, I’m good,” I say. My head’s a little fuzzy. Clearly I am not a heavy drinker.

“Okay, no prob. Gina?”

She shakes her head. “I’m driving,” she says, which is blatantly untrue. She just doesn’t want to drink.

“Okay, then just a beer each for Ricky and Nini?” They nod, and EJ disappears.

The thing is, there are two definite types of people. The party-goers, who kiss strangers, and drink like it’s no big deal, and are completely comfortable with the idea of having sex (or maybe already have). People like Nini, and Ricky. Then there are people who don’t really drink, and have never kissed anyone. People like me, and Gina. People like Churro. Well, I’ve kissed before, but I don’t count it.

I’ve never kissed another guy. I think about that a lot.

Suddenly, for no particular reason, I blurt out, “Do you ever wonder how we got here?”

“Well, you and I walked,” Nini says, her head tilting in amused confusion.

“No,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “Not _here_ here. Like, we come from loads of different places.”

“I have Spanish and East Asian ancestors,” Nini pipes up.

“Right, exactly. And Ricky’s ancestors were from Israel.”

“Israel?” says Ricky curiously, wrinkling his nose as he twists one of the guitar’s tuning dials. “They were from France.” Huh. That shows how much I know. I thought Jewish people were from Israel.

“Mine were English,” says EJ, returning suddenly and handing out drinks.

“Right. And Gina’s are from…” I suddenly stop talking, apparently in control of my inhibitions not to say something very stupid.

“Ghana, I think,” she says.

“Exactly,” I say. “Like, it’s all so _random_. What brought them all here?”

“Slavery,” says Gina in a deadpan voice, and I nearly choke on my own tongue. _Fuck_. So much for not saying anything stupid.

“How much have you had?” Nini asks, laughing nervously and looking from Gina to me.

“One beer.”

“My god, you’re a lightweight,” Ricky laughs. “Can’t wait until we’re actually legal.”

“Come on,” Nini says, nudging Ricky playfully. “Let’s go dance.”

“No,” he moans, drawing out the ‘o’ sound and pouting.

“I’ll dance,” EJ pipes up, and clearly the beer, gross as it was, has done me some good, because I can’t even bring myself to give a shit.

“Nice,” she grins, and pulls him up. He follows her onto the makeshift dance floor, looking like the cat who got the cream, and Ricky follows close behind, clearly determined not to be outdone by EJ. It very quickly becomes apparent that neither of them really knows how to dance, and they just sort of shuffle from side to side, nodding in time to the music, as Nini dances like neither of them is there.

“Hey Seb,” Gina says with a slight smile. “You remember how we said nothing would ever be more cringeworthy than the incident at Ricky’s bar mitzvah?”

“We’re finally being proved wrong,” I say, unable to drag my gaze away from the unholy scene. It’s like a car crash. I put my arm around her and squeeze, and she buries her face into my shoulder and murmurs something. “What?” I ask, but she shakes her head and leans back against the wall again.

By the time we leave, I’ve pretty well sobered up, and now I’m just absolutely exhausted. It’s well past one in the morning, and for someone like me who’s normally asleep by eleven, that’s pretty late. EJ stops me on my way out.

“What?” I say, harsher than I mean to. After all, underlying blackmail aside, he’s not been that much of a dick this evening.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” he says. “For inviting me, I mean. I feel like Nini and I bonded tonight.”

“Yeah, whatever. Happy fucking Halloween, I guess.”

He laughs. “You get home safely, yeah?”

“Thanks.” Fortunately he leaves after that, while I imagine pulling my plastic sword off my back and running him through with it. Nini glances at him as she comes up to me.

“You ready to go?” I nod, and stifle a yawn. “Big night for you,” she teases. “Clearly your first time drinking.”

“Piss off,” I mutter with a grin as we start wandering down the road towards our farm.

“And you and Gina?” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “You looked pretty cosy tonight.”

“Me and Gina?” I repeat with a dry laugh.

“You looked cute together,” she says, and I shake my head. _Nope. Far too gay for that, Nini._ But I don’t say that. Why don’t I just say that? “Okay,” she shrugs. “So, uh, EJ came up to me just before we left.” I tense immediately, wondering what he’s said. “He kept talking about homecoming. Like, he brought it up three times in one conversation.”

“Did he ask you to go with him?” I ask in absolute astonishment. Is my nightmare about to be over, a mere week after it began?

She smiles and shakes her head. “Not exactly. He seemed to be working his way towards it, but… couldn’t quite get there.” For fuck’s sake, EJ. You just couldn’t suck it up and ask, could you?

“Are you guys still boycotting?”

“Yup.” Gina, Ricky and I never go to homecoming on principle. Instead we go out to eat at a little Mexican restaurant in the city called Chunga’s, and it does literally the best quesadillas in the world. Except for maybe Mexico. But anyway, we spend the night there and gossip about our various friends. It’s good fun.

“Well, suit yourselves,” she says with a smile. “Don’t get me wrong, EJ’s sweet,” she adds, “but I’m already going with Rico Martin, from my English class. I arranged it on Tuesday.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” I say as casually as possible.

“Hey, sorry to ask, but could you mention it to EJ?” she asks apologetically. “I wouldn’t ask, but since you guys seem to be friends…” Again, fucking hilarious.

“Sure,” I say. Whatever. Because what could possibly go wrong with that? It’s not like the guy’s holding my private emails ransom or anything.

“Thanks,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing it affectionately.

The living room lights are still on when we approach the house. Did my parents seriously wait up for us? In a career that starts before the sun rises? _It’s more likely than you think_ , my mind offers me, addled with tiredness and the remains of the beer, and I grin despite myself.

“Seb, are we in the shit?” Nini hisses as we slink in through the back door.

“I don’t think so,” I whisper back. “They said back by two, which we are. But I did think they’d be in bed.” They emerge from the lounge and come into the kitchen. My mom sits down at the table and my dad leans against the arch which divides the kitchen and the hallway. I brace myself for a lecture, but they both look pretty relaxed. That said, they both look about as tired as I feel.

“How was it?” asks my dad. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, it was pretty chill,” I say with a casual smile, slumping into the chair opposite my mom. Nini leans against the piano and plunges her hands into the deep pockets of her long coat. “Ricky found a guitar, predictably. And we mostly just sat around and chatted.” That part’s actually true.

“That boy always has a guitar,” my mom chuckles. “The girls seem to be all over him.”

“They did like him tonight,” Nini agrees. “I have to admit, he plays well.” My mom raises her eyebrows at her, and Nini gets her meaning immediately. “Oh, no,” Nini says hastily, but interestingly, she doesn’t sound too sure. I make a mental note to follow up on that at some point. Silence holds for a moment, then I speak.

“Well, I’m wiped.” This seems to flip a switch in everyone, and we all come back to earth.

“Of course, you must be,” says my dad, stifling a yawn of his own. “Nini, you know where you’re sleeping?”

Nini nods. “Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom smiles. “Any friend of Sebastian’s is welcome here.” Nini hugs me good night, then goes to the bathroom to change into pyjamas. She’s sleeping on a futon in my dad’s study, which is hilarious, because Ricky sleeps in my room every time he stays over, without fail.

I guess that would be the weirdest thing about coming out. Not specifically Nini being allowed to sleep in my room. I mean the fact that so much in my life would change in little ways. In the grand scheme of things, I know I’m really lucky. I’m a lower middle-class, white, able-bodied, cis boy in one of the world’s richest countries. And I really don’t think there would be that much of a backlash to my coming out. My family isn’t religious, and – my dad’s casually homophobic jests aside – my parents are pretty progressive. I know for certain they wouldn’t kick me out for it, or anything like that.

But the thing is, I guess the prospect is daunting because it never really stops. Like, sure, if I’d told Nini that I’m gay this evening, that would have been cool – but it wouldn’t have been _it_. There would still be so many people in my life who would assume I was straight until told otherwise, and I suppose it seems overwhelming to have to come out all over again every time I meet someone new.

Also, I’ve said before that my family is really dramatic, and they make a big deal out of everything. When I first got a girlfriend. When I started shaving. When I told them I was auditioning for _Beauty and the Beast_ – even before I got the part! Hell, if I’d told my parents I had a beer tonight, they probably wouldn’t have been mad, they probably would have just said they were glad I felt I could tell them and Not To Get Drunk Or Drive After Drinking. It’s absurd.

I guess it’s just tiring having to deal with people blowing everything up bigger than it needs to be. And every time I try something new, it’s like I’m introducing a brand new version of myself to the world. Sebastian 2.0. And it’s exhausting.

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 2 nd, 8:37am_

_I hope your Halloween was fun, and that your simple, badass costume was a success. I have to say, things were pretty quiet here – only about three groups actually came to the dick. I mean, the door. Sorry!_

_This of course means that I now have a month’s supply of various types of M &M’s to eat entirely by myself. Such is life._

_Anyway, I’m not really expecting a fast reply – if your party was anything like the ones my friends throw, I doubt you’ll even be awake before noon! I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you, and I hope you didn’t party yourself into a coma last night._

_Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 2 nd, 2:16pm_

_Very funny, Churro. You’re HILARIOUS._

_I’m not going to lie to you, it was pretty good fun. It turns out beer is disgusting for the first half, and then vaguely tolerable after that. Who knew? Still not really a fan though. And yeah, I only woke up about 45 minutes ago. My bad._

_And you have leftover M &M’s?? God, I’m jealous. I don’t think we’ve ever had leftover candy because my mom just divides it up between my youngest siblings at the end of the night. I generally steal some from them though. Does that make me a terrible person? Probably. Do I care? Not even a little bit._

_I know Spirit Week is still a week away, but everyone I know is getting their costumes ready. I know you said you’re not really a costume guy, but you’ve GOT to dress up for Spirit Week! Any inspired ideas for what you’re doing?_

_Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 2 nd, 8:43pm_

_Wow, you only woke up forty-five minutes before you sent that email? That’s impressively late, Flounder. All the same, what do you mean replying to my emails isn’t the first thing you do when you wake up? That’s rude, frankly. ;)_

_Stealing from your younger siblings? Yeah, I’m fairly sure that makes you a bad person. Have you watched_ The Good Place _? Because that’s definitely some minus points there. Of course, if you haven’t watched it, that reference means nothing. Go watch it, it’s awesome._

_As for Spirit Week… I don’t know. Obviously I’m planning on dressing up – I’d be even more conspicuous if I didn’t – but I’m not sure I want to tell you exactly what I’m dressing up as, because then it’d be easier for you to work out who I am. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet: whatever we’re doing here, I’m not sure it really works without the element of anonymity. The only reason I feel comfortable being half as honest as I have been, is because you don’t know who I am. I imagine you feel the same._

_Sorry to be a bummer. I’m not mad at you, I just wanted to be honest. On a lighter note, I am looking forward to the week. I’m not going to the dance (obviously), and football is my least favourite sport, but I still like going to the homecoming game. There’s something about the excitement and the team spirit that really gets to me._

_Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 3 rd, 9:55am_

_Churro, I feel like I made you uncomfortable about the costume thing, and I’m really sorry. I totally get what you’re saying, and at the moment I wrote it, it didn’t even occur to me that telling each other about our costumes would give away who we are. I am totally okay with keeping this anonymous, and I’m sorry if you felt pressured to do otherwise. Like, really sorry. I know I probably sound like a stuck record, but I really mean it. I fucked up. Or forked up, as Eleanor Shellstrop would say._

_Besides, I think you’re right. The fact that you don’t know who I am does make it easier to tell you stuff. Stuff I don’t talk to other people about._

_And full disclosure – checking this email is the first thing I do when I wake up. But your emails are always so grammatical and coherent, that I generally don’t feel confident sending mine until I’ve proofread it at least twenty times. So sue me._

_Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 3 rd, 4:29pm_

 _It’s okay, please don’t worry about it. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page, and apparently we are! We’re all good, as far as I’m concerned – not least because you clearly have watched_ The Good Place _. Let the record show that I approve._

_And never worry about how your emails read, I always love reading them. Besides, you’re nearly always grammatical, and definitely always cute._

_Churro_

_P.S. I thought you might want to know that I have four different types of M &M’s here, and at least three packets of each. I’m fully aware that this is shameless boasting, but much like your attitude to the brazen larceny of your siblings’ sweet snacks (by which I am still appalled), I simply do not care._

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 3 rd, 5:59pm_

_You really think I’m cute and grammatical? Well, thanks, Churro. I think you’re cute and grammatical too. Although Mr Mazzara says I have a problem with sentence fragments. Which may or may not be true. As you can tell from this paragraph._

_And frankly, I’m deeply hurt that you’re holding all those M &M’s over my head. That’s very rude._

_Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 3 rd, 6:07pm_

_Did you mean to just to tell me the name of your English teacher? Because that’s a pretty big clue, Flounder. Sometimes I think you leave me more clues than you mean to._

_Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 3 rd, 6:12pm_

_Fuck. Nope, no way to recover. No, I did not mean to let that slip. I guess that narrows it down a lot, huh? But never mind. Enjoy Spirit Week, and the chance to be someone else for a week. I know I will._

_Flounder_


	4. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming arrives, and tensions start to rise between Seb and his friends - and EJ.

Wednesday is always the worst day of Spirit Week, because everyone takes the problematically-named ‘Gender Bender Day’ to the extremes, and I’m really not on board with it myself. Personally, I think people should be allowed to wear what they want every day of the year, rather than using dressing in drag as a punchline for a costume day. But that’s just me.

I arrive to English with Gina – I’m wearing just two hair clips, but no one really notices us for the carnival show that is Ricky, Big Red and Carlos at the back of the room. God knows how they managed it, but they’ve swiped three cheerleader uniforms. Even Carlos, who I would _never_ have thought would be roped into such a scheme. All the same, he looks a little self-conscious, while the other two are obviously hamming it up. I smile at Carlos when he catches my eye, and he blushes, twisting his hands together on his desk. I’ve never noticed it before, but he’s actually kind of adorable.

“You guys look incredible,” I say with a soft laugh. As he smiles, he scrunches his nose up to shift his glasses further up his nose.

“Nice hair clips,” he says shyly. I don’t get a chance to reply before Nini enters, and bursts out laughing when she sees the boys.

“Oh my _god!_ ” she exclaims. “You guys!” She’s wearing a fake grey beard that’s so long that she’s tied it around her waist like a belt. She glances at me and Gina, and opens her mouth in disappointed protest. “You didn’t dress up?”

“I’m wearing hair clips,” I say defensively.

“Barely,” she tuts. “And what about you?” she asks Gina, who just shrugs. She’s wearing a floral cream dress with a navy cardigan – she always dresses more feminine on Gender Bender Day, to make a similar point to me, I think.

“Well, Ricky, Red and Carlos win for boldest costumes,” she says firmly, but then someone else appears in the doorway and immediately sets my teeth on edge. It’s EJ, and he too is wearing a cheerleader costume. Seriously, how many spares does this school have? He lifts one arm and half-hangs off the top of the doorway.

“Oh my god,” Gina says in disbelief. He’s gone all-out – he’s even shoved something down his top to mimic breasts, and he’s so tall that the jersey barely goes any further. I notice with some trepidation that he’s even shaved his armpits. Good freaking lord. Laughter starts to spread around the classroom as more and more people notice him, but surprisingly, none of it’s malicious. One person wolf-whistles. Mr Mazzara finally looks up from his desk, sees EJ and rolls his eyes.

“Please take your seat, Mr Caswell,” he says, sounding exhausted. Poor guy. It’s barely 9am and he’s clearly already so done with this day. And honestly? Cute interaction with Carlos aside, me too.

On Friday, the costume theme is music, and of course the juniors chose country, so everyone’s donned cowboy hats, bandannas and tassels. A few people have even attached spurs to their shoes, which is pretty awesome. The faculty have also scattered hay intermittently through the corridors, which as a farm boy, I love. Ashlyn, Natalie Bagley and a few others complain about it though, protesting about allergies. But it’s fun, and really adds to the vibe.

At lunch, Nini doesn’t appear for, like, ten minutes, so we start eating without her. I’m talking to Gina and Carlos, commiserating about the poor sophomore boy who walked down the science corridor and had to go home because he had an asthma attack from all the hay, when Big Red pipes up over the hubbub of mixed conversations. “Hey guys, who’s going to the homecoming game?” He looks around expectantly, as Gina snorts. “I just wanted to know so Carlos and I can save seats.” Carlos smiles bashfully as Kourtney and Ashlyn nod.

“Yeah, we’ll be there.”

“Count me in too,” Ricky says, as Gina looks at him in betrayed astonishment.

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s no big deal,” Ricky says with a shrug, half-smiling at Gina.

“But what about Chunga’s?”

“We can go some other time.”

“Yeah, I thought I might go too,” I say meekly, and Gina turns her glare on me. If looks could kill, I’d be lying in a mortuary right now.

“Wow, I didn’t know I’d sat down for lunch in Hogle Zoo’s _snake enclosure_.”

“Relax, Gina,” Ricky says with a light-hearted scoff. “So we don’t go to Chunga’s, what’s the problem?”

“Just shut up,” she snaps, and he widens his eyes, but does in fact shut up. I catch Carlos’ eye across the table and grimace, and he offers a sympathetic smile in return. Just then, Nini arrives, wearing two cowboy hats stacked on top of each other.

“Hey peeps!” she says with a grin. “Who’s ready for homecoming?” Gina looks daggers at me and Ricky, then stands up, swings her backpack onto her shoulders and marches out of the cafeteria. “Who crapped in her cornflakes?” Big Red asks with a nervous giggle, but I can’t bring myself to laugh. I’m already feeling guilty for ditching Gina, but the truth is I have an ulterior motive for going the homecoming game – I know for a fact that Churro is going to be there.

And, I know, there are going to be at least fifteen hundred people there, so it’s statistically much more likely that he’s in the cafeteria right now, but there’s something about knowing for absolute certain that I’m going to be in the same place as Churro which excites me. But of course, I can’t possibly explain that to Gina, so she thinks that I, like Ricky, am ditching her for Nini. Which feels pretty terrible.

There’s no rehearsal tonight because of homecoming, so Nini and I go back to Ricky’s for an hour or so. Nini pulls out Monopoly from one of Ricky’s shelves, and Ricky makes a pained face, but I’m down, so we set up the board.

“Come on,” Nini pleads. “It’s so much better with three.”

“Fine,” Ricky says with a sigh. “But if you think I’m just going to sit here and watch you two bicker in between my turns, you’ve got another think coming.”

“It’s not bickering,” I protest. “It’s bargaining.”

“Yeah, right,” Ricky says, reaching for his guitar, predictably. I magnanimously let Nini start, and she immediately lands on the first train station and buys it.

“Hey, you have to go round once before you can start buying,” I say, pointing an accusing finger at her.

“Dude, we only have like an hour and a half. You’re just pissed because you like the stations.” I scowl at her, but only because she’s right. As I take my turn, she says thoughtfully, “Why was Gina so upset today?”

“Chunga’s on homecoming night is kind of our thing,” Ricky says, plucking the melody of ‘Still Got Tonight’ by Matthew Morrison and humming along.

“I guess,” she says, counting out 140 dollars in Monopoly money and handing it over. “But you could go another night, right?”

“I don’t think it’s that,” I say carefully, passing her back the card for the property she just bought.

“Ricky, it’s you,” she says, rolling onto her back and turning her head to look at me. “Is it me?” I hesitate, and that tells her what she needs to know. “She really doesn’t like me, does she?” Her voice is unusually small and sad.

“It’s not that,” Ricky says quickly, throwing the dice and moving his race car seven spaces forward. He takes a card, frowns at it, then places fifteen dollars into the centre of the board.

“Yeah, she’d have been pissed whoever we’d ditched her for,” I add, and Ricky winces.

“See, it sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”

“I mean,” I shrug, tossing the dice across the board, and moving Nini’s battleship back onto its space as one of the dice sends it spinning across the board. “We did cancel our three-year tradition _on_ the day.”

“I guess so,” Ricky says, looking a little ashamed for the first time.

“Should we call her?” Nini asks, tugging anxiously on the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t want her to be mad at us. By the way, you owe me twelve dollars, Seb.”

“Oh, she’s not mad at you,” I say gloomily, handing over the rent money. “But don’t worry. We’ll make it up to her somehow.” I pass Nini the dice; she rolls a seven, lands on Free Parking and takes the money Ricky put in the centre of the board.

“Thief,” he says crossly as he shakes the dice in his hand again, and she manages a smile, still clearly feeling bad about Gina.

As the game keeps going, Nini keeps getting richer, and Ricky and I keep getting poorer. But my mind’s only half-focused on the board. Well, to be honest, these days, I’m never more than half-focused on anything at any given time. I’m usually thinking about Churro.

At first I always thought of him as my friend, and confidant, I suppose. But lately, I don’t know what it is, I’ve been thinking differently about him. As in, I’ve been imagining us kissing and that sort of thing. Well, mostly it’s me imagining making out with Marshall Dixon, but that’s been true for months. This is new – this is definitely me thinking about kissing _Churro_ , who just happens to look like Marshall. It’s probably just a Pavlovian reaction. Or something. I’m not a psychology student, how should I know?

But yeah, I’m not completely sure when exactly the dynamic shifted, but frankly it’s a little unsettling. Before I used to look forward to Churro’s emails; now, with the stress of the EJ situation, they’re often the only thing getting me through the day. And I sort of feel like the sentiment is mutual. Before, we’d email maybe once every day, or even every other day. Recently though, there’s been an email waiting for me when I get home from school, and I’ll sometimes get another one before I go to bed.

Now, though, I’m just a little exhilarated by the knowledge that Churro is here somewhere. I’m not exactly expecting him to pull some big romantic gesture – not least because as far I know, he doesn’t know who I am. I’m still excited, though.

“Jeez, I’ve never seen it so crowded,” Ricky mutters as we pull into the parking lot.

“Is it always like this?” I ask. This seems like a lot of people. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t be silly,” Nini says, leaning between the front seats and booping me on the nose. She does that a lot. Apparently I have a very boopable nose, whatever that means.

“Is that a space?” Ricky asks, pointing to the end of a row of cars.

“No, it’s a motorbike spot.”

“Shit,” he sighs, but then Nini points to a spot a few yards from a floodlight illuminating the parking lot.

“There.”

“You’re amazing,” Ricky says, and Nini flushes slightly as she sits back in her seat. Ricky swings his car into the space, and we head out towards the hubbub. On the way, we see Carlos and Big Red, and start climbing the steps up the bleachers.

Gina, unsurprisingly, is nowhere to be seen, but Kourtney and Ashlyn wave us over. EJ’s also there, making (probably awkward) conversation with the girls, who look distinctly unimpressed. Nini and Ricky slide in together, then Big Red, then Carlos. There’s very little space left, but the others squidge together so that I can sit. Even so, I’m practically sitting on Carlos’ lap, so I jump up, suddenly hot and antsy, and admit defeat.

“I’m, uh, going to sit with the other theatre kids,” I say awkwardly.

“We’ll catch up with you later,” Ricky says, throwing up a peace sign. “Love you, man.” I give him a curious look and say goodbye to the others.

“Sorry, Seb,” Carlos says, gentle voice barely audible over the commotion. “Hope you can find someone to sit with.” Normally, it annoys me when anyone other than Ricky, Gina or Nini calls me Seb, but for some reason it sounds nice coming from him. I smile at him, then descend a few rows of seats to where Natalie and a few others are sitting, including Marshall, who scoots over to make room for me.

“Alright, Seb?” he says in his calm voice, which makes me smile. He’s phased it out a little now, but for a while when he first moved here, he greeted everyone with “alright”. Apparently it’s really common in Britain, but it always threw us. Now, though, it just sounds nice and familiar, which I think I needed. He’s also allowed to call me Seb. I think I need to revise my definition of who has permission – family members, close friends and cute boys. Yeah, that covers it.

“Hey,” I say, shifting a little closer. I think, somehow, I knew he’d be here. Because Churro said he would be. I’m tempted to make some comment about the smell of the air, but however he responds, I’ll know whether or not I’m right, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. “Didn’t have you down as a football fan,” I say instead.

“This is _not_ football,” he says with a mischievous smile, and I laugh, because he’s funny, and seriously cute. “This is nearly rugby, but less violent, and with helmets.” I laugh again, and he grins. God, he’s pretty. “But I like to come to the big school games when I can. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before, though.”

“First time for everything,” I say, which with hindsight sounds kind of lame, but he doesn’t laugh.

“That’s cool,” he says, and I feel a secret thrill at the idea that he notices when I’m not here. It’s a nice feeling. What’s less of a nice feeling is EJ Fucking Caswell sliding in next to me and completely ruining whatever moment Marshall and I were having.

“Hey, Seb,” he says, but his tone is hard and accusatory, not gentle like Marshall’s. “Dixon,” he says over me, with a nod to Marshall, who gives him an awkward half-smile in return.

“Hi,” I say, more than a little cautiously.

“So I asked Nini to the dance,” he says.

“Oh?” I say, and my blood runs cold.

“Yeah,” he says coldly. “She shot me down. Did you know she already had a date?”

“She, uh, might have mentioned it, yeah.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for letting me know,” he snaps.

“Sorry,” I say, and he looks moodily away for a moment before standing up and leaving.

“What was that about?” Marshall asks, his brown eyes soft and concerned.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say quietly, very much not wanting to tell him, but also not wanting to brush him off. I watch EJ shove his hands in the pocket of his water polo jacket as he heads for the stadium gates, and I actually feel a little guilty. And if that isn’t fucked up, I don’t know what is.

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 16 th, 3:17pm_

_Firstly, I’m glad you enjoyed the homecoming game. Honestly my night kind of blew, but I came home to find that my dad made chicken pot pie for dinner and saved me some. I realise this is probably a really inappropriate thing to say, but it was orgasmic. I’m not even ashamed. It was that good._

_I don’t know if you’ve picked this up about me – actually if you haven’t, I don’t know how – but I sort of love food. Food and music are basically the two loves of my life._

_We never really go on vacations as a family (my parents’ jobs don’t really allow for it) but I went to a camp one summer with the oldest of my sisters. One of these adventure camps that’s not supposed to feel like the army but kind of does. One day they woke us up at 5am and we went canoeing in the rain. Very possibly the worst experience of my life so far._

_Anyway, we weren’t allowed to take any snacks (???) for our tents, so me and my sister created this imaginary world where everything was made of food. Like, there was Lemonade Lake, Waffle Woods, Marshmallow Mountain, Salted Caramel Creek, that sort of thing. Looking back, I think we basically just inadvertently reinvented the concept of the Chocolate Room from_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _._

_(On a similar note, I thought it might amuse you to know that when we were 9, my best friend accidentally invented communism. He was like, “Why doesn’t everyone just get equal pay and share everything?” His mom had to tell him that they tried that and it didn’t really work.)_

_Anyway, I know my sister and I took it too far that time, but doesn’t every kid fantasise about snack foods? Until you reach the age where you can start fantasising about sex, that is._

_Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 16 th, 10:21pm_

_Sorry your homecoming kind of blew. How about we agree to go together next year? That way it definitely won’t suck. Either way, I’m glad you enjoyed your dinner. Honestly I’m starting to wonder if my mom’s actually not a great cook, because I don’t think I’ve ever had an experience of a chicken pie to match the one you describe._

_Funnily enough, I had picked that up, but truthfully, I don’t think I’d realised the true extent of your obsession until now. I should probably warn you that I am on board with visiting almost every place in this impressively vivid fantasy land – with the sole exception of Marshmallow Mountain. Here’s my confession: one time at a carnival, I ate a pound of those big marshmallows, then walked straight into the line for the Rotor. You know, that ride where they spin you around and you stick to the wall because of the g-force?_

_It’s worth pointing out that a pound doesn’t sound like a lot until you remember how light marshmallows are – even the big ones. Anyway, suffice it to say that people who are easily nauseated should keep well away from any form of rollercoaster, especially ones involving spinning. Imagine a washing machine of vomit, and you’ve got the general idea._

_As for your communist friend, that’s really funny, Flounder. I guess it’s easy to look at something complex and flawed and think, “Huh, why doesn’t that work?”, when really we should as a society be closer to that model of living than its alternative. Sorry, that got deep and political._

_And I think you’re right about fantasising about junk food – I’m fairly sure we all did it. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I like imagining you as a kid daydreaming about food. I’m even more embarrassed to admit that I like imagining you now fantasising about sex. I can’t believe I wrote. I can’t believe I’m not deleting it. I can’t believe I’m sending this email._

_Churro_


	5. The Happiest of Birthdays (Almost)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb celebrates his birthday and Thanksgiving, and makes a new friend. Sort of.

Oh my god. He likes to think about me fantasising about sex. Twenty seconds after I read this line, I remember to breathe. I thought I was the only one who had those kind of thoughts about us. Now I’m just lying here in the near-darkness, not really sure what to do now. And I’m hard, which is kind of weird. _He likes to think about me fantasising about sex._ And if that’s true, he probably likes thinking about us _having_ sex, which is thrilling and terrifying all at the same time. I just can’t get over it, and funnily enough, it’s on my mind the whole weekend.

I wake up on Monday with a buzz of excitement. I shower quickly and carefully, and shave for the first time since Friday. Not that you could really tell. I dress a little nicer than usual, and actually make an effort to clean some of the dirt off my sneakers. Admittedly it’s not the greatest attempt to smarten myself up, but I try a little. After all, it’s only your birthday once a year.

My dad’s made pancakes, which is sweet, considering it’s a weekday. The five of us sort of process through the kitchen and grab a couple on our way out of the door – none of us really leave enough time to eat breakfast in the morning. Except Caleb, because my mom does it for him.

Heather’s a little chattier than usual on the way to school today (which she always describes as being part of her birthday present), and once we’re there, someone gets my attention.

“Seb!” I turn around, to see Gina slowing from a jog. I tense a little, unsure if she’s still pissed at me and Ricky for bailing on her on Friday, but she reaches into her backpack and pulls out a small present. It looks like a CD, and there’s a piece of thick card taped to it. I read the limerick she’s written on it and smile.

_Your birthday arrives every year,_  
_And it really should fill you with fear._  
_‘Cause soon you’ll be old,_  
_Your corpse will be cold,_  
_Enjoy it Seb, while you’re still here._

“Charming,” I say with a grin, and she lets me hug her. “I love it. Sorry about homecoming.”

“It’s a good job it’s your birthday,” she smiles. “Sorry I overreacted.”

Our lunch table is a riot, as it always is on a birthday. As I arrive, Nini pins a massive button with _BIRTHDAY BOY_ written on it. I laugh as I look down on it – it’s been made for a seven-year-old, and she’s written the number ‘1’ in front of the ‘7’ in Sharpie.

“Happy birthday,” she says, booping me on the nose. Ricky, ever the gentle soul, wordlessly stands in front of me and punches me in the upper arm seventeen times.

“Thanks, Ricky,” I smile, wincing as I circle my shoulder to ease the dull ache. He grins and starts badgering Gina for cake.

Gina always brings a big cake for everyone to share, except when it’s her own birthday, when one of us (usually Kourtney or Ashlyn) makes the arrangements. Now, though, she starts dividing it up, as Kourtney passes around party hats. It’s my favourite: chocolate, with salted caramel between the layers. It’s incredible, and it seems as though everyone in the cafeteria is angling for a slice, but Gina staves off the wolves until everyone at the table has had at least one piece.

Because we’re such a large group, there’s sort of an unspoken rule that we only buy real presents for the people we’re closest to. Gina’s already given me hers, and Ricky and Nini also give me one. Carlos, Big Red, Kourtney and Ashlyn all give me some kind of candy as a mini-gift, as per tradition, which I am more than okay with. As I told Churro, chocolate is basically the key to my heart anyway. And I now have a family bag of peanut M&M’s from Carlos, which makes up for the envy I was feeling for Churro’s post-Halloween stockpile.

I take what’s left of the cake to the auditorium, where we’re having our rehearsal today. Enthusiastic drama kids crowd around the box, clamouring for a taste. I decide to let Natalie divide it up between them, and go and sit on the edge of the stage to drink the smoothie which Miss Jenn brought me, reportedly as a “Happy birthday and thank you for playing the piano all the damn time” gift. Her words.

As I sit there, I hear someone approaching from behind. I turn around and look up, to see Marshall smiling down at me and nudging me with his foot. He sits down, barely two inches from me, legs hanging over the edge of the stage.

“Happy birthday,” he says quietly. “Any plans?”

“Not really,” I say, which is a disappointing answer, but come on. It’s a Monday. “My family normally do a really nice dinner for our birthdays, though.” Subtle mention of food and family, just in case he’s Churro. If he picks up on it, though, he doesn’t say anything.

“Sounds good,” he says with a nod. “And hey, you’ve got Thanksgiving weekend coming up, so you could celebrate properly then, right?”

“You know about Thanksgiving?” I tease, and he shoves me gently with his shoulder.

“I’ve lived here for three years, Seb,” he chuckles. “I think I should know when Thanksgiving is.”

“That’s enough merriment, people,” Miss Jenn says loudly, marching in front of the stage and clapping her hands twice. “We have a show to put on.”

“Well, enjoy,” Marshall says. As he stands up, he places a hand on my leg, and I think that’s possibly the closest I’ve ever been to actually dying. I think I manage to stutter out a word of thanks, but I’m really not sure. Either way, birthdays are the fucking _best_.

On Thursday night, once we’ve finished dinner and my mom and dad have settled down in the living room, the five of us sneak out to the barn. It’s a Thanksgiving tradition for us – Heather and I started it when we were nine and seven, and we’ve done it every year since. For the first few years, our parents never worked out where we were, but then we made the mistake of letting the twins come with us when they turned five, and Patrick blabbed to our mom literally the _minute_ we got back. Heather and I were furious, but they just laughed and told us not to give the cows any of the food we stole. We still like to pretend we’re sneaking out though, because it makes it that much more fun.

This year, for the first time, I hoist Caleb onto my back, while Heather, Tina and Patrick carry various leftovers from dinner, and we make a dash for it, Caleb giggling adorably all the way out. “Faster!” he whispers excitedly. Yeah, sure, Caleb. As if I’m physically capable of moving any faster than a speed-walk with him on my back, after having consumed my bodyweight in turkey, stuffing and chocolate pie. Even at this speed, I’m out of breath by the time we reach the barn. Heather holds the door open and ushers us in, then we slump down in the hay pile and spread out the food.

“So,” Heather says after a while, and I glance over at her. I’m surprised to see that she looks relaxed, rather than the moody, tense exterior I’ve become accustomed to over the last few years. “What are we thankful for?” Patrick, Tina and I groan, and I give her a withering look.

“Really?” I say, digging a spoon into the pumpkin pie and shoving it into my mouth. "A bit sentimental for you, isn't it?"

“Go on,” she says. “It’s a nice tradition.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “I’m thankful for…” As I’m thinking, and my phone buzzes. I pull it out and see that it’s an email from Churro.

“Seb!” she scolds, and I push it back into my pocket.

“Sorry, sorry.” I have another spoonful of pie while I think. I can’t exactly tell them what I’m really thankful for. “I’m thankful that we have such an awesome place to hang out,” I say, gesturing to the barn at large. “Caleb, what are you thankful for?”

“Chocolate pie,” he mumbles with his mouth full, making us all laugh. We all say something, and then conversation turns a bit more general, including Heather making some snide comment in my direction, in case we think she’s turning too serious. At about this point, Caleb moves from his place into the circle and comes to sit next to me, leaning against my side and yawning. He’s always been tactile, and gets even more so when he’s tired. Heather yawns too, rubbing her eyes under her glasses.

“You tired?” I ask in surprise, and she nods.

“School, you know,” she says with a shrug, and I hum in agreement. “Oh, hang on,” she says, retrieving her own cell phone from her pocket. I look at her in disbelief.

“Hypocrite.”

“This is different,” she says. “When you get a boyfriend, you can look at your phone.” For a moment the irony hurts, then I register what she’s said.

“Wait, you have a boyfriend?”

“What? No,” she says evasively, pointlessly trying to backtrack. Nice try, Heather. As if this isn't the biggest news any of us have had in the last month.

“Who is it?” Tina asks.

“Bet it’s that boy with the black hair she was walking with yesterday,” Patrick says knowledgably, and Heather blushes. Like, actually blushes.

“Wait, Samuel Green?” I say, and she shrugs again.

“That’s him,” Patrick nods, dipping his hand into the ceramic jar in the centre of the circle and pulling out an Oreo and an oatmeal cookie.

“You dark horse,” I grin. “Is he on Instagram?”

“Don’t,” she warns, but my phone’s already out. I see Churro’s email notification again, and decide against it.

“Alright,” I concede, and pass my phone to Caleb for safekeeping. Predictably, he pulls up _Minion Rush_ , which I only keep on there for him. Honest. “Is he nice?”

“No, he’s a total asshole,” she says sarcastically. I glare and point at Caleb, but he seems to be absorbed in the game, as he doesn’t look up. She grimaces, and changes her tack. “No, yeah, he’s nice, Seb. That’s why I’m dating him.”

“Do you kiss?” Patrick asks.

“Are you going to get married?” Tina asks curiously.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, burying her face in her hands. “This is why I don’t tell you guys stuff.”

“Lay off her,” I say to the twins, partly wondering if this is my moment to tell them that I’m gay. I don’t know. Part of me wants to tell my parents first, in case Tina, Patrick or Caleb were to end up telling them first.

“Hey, remember her first boyfriend?” Patrick says, and Tina starts giggling.

“What’s up, dudes,” she says, deepening her voice in a passable imitation of Luke Watts, the guy she dated in seventh grade. Patrick bursts out laughing, and Heather manages a rueful smile.

“Yeah, he was annoying,” she admits. “Samuel’s much nicer.” She grins, but she’s clearly embarrassed by the attention. “So, uh, it’s probably time to make fun of Seb,” she says hastily. “What do we think – hair, clothes or music taste?”

“Hair,” Patrick says with a grimace.

“Did you even try this morning?” Tina adds, wrinkling her nose.

“Hey,” I say, laughing. “I put a lot of effort into this.” A blatant lie, I made no attempts to control my hair this morning. It’s a public holiday, for God’s sake. It’s not like I was going to be seeing anyone. “Anyway, you don’t have to be embarrassed about Samuel Green,” I say to Heather. “We all did stupid stuff in middle school. You will too,” I add, addressing Tina and Patrick.

“What did you do that was embarrassing?” Heather says curiously. “I don’t remember you being any weirder than you are now.” I stick my tongue out at her and cringe as I remember one particular thing.

“Ricky’s bar mitzvah,” I say. “I thought it would be a good idea to eat half a dozen Twizzlers before performing a rather energetic dance routine for ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’.” Heather’s mouth drops open as the twins burst out laughing.

“You said you had _food poisoning_!”

“I lied,” I admit, and she slaps my arm.

“I’m definitely mentioning that at your wedding,” she says triumphantly, and I snort.

“I’m pretty sure Ricky’s already written it into his best man’s speech.” She laughs softly, and I savour this moment – all of us getting along, just for tonight, with incredible food, and the world’s most adorable five-year-old rapidly falling asleep against me.

Sure enough, as soon as Thanksgiving weekend is over, it’s back to the clusterfuck that is school and normal sibling relationships. Heather pushes past me on the way out of the door, and locks me out of my own car. Truce broken, business as usual resumed, apparently.

As Mr Mazzara passes our tests back, I look at the grade with some trepidation. I did this the day after my birthday, when I’d been so hopped up on sugar that I only had about two hours’ sleep. With this in mind, I look at the perfect grade with utter astonishment. It’s only then that I realise that Mr Mazzara clearly has no idea who I am, as this is not my test. I turn to my left and tap on Carlos’ shoulder. He starts slightly, and I hold out his paper. “Congratulations,” I say, smiling wryly, and he blushes. I suppose he’s embarrassed about me seeing his grade.

“Commiserations,” he says in return, with a slightly awkward grin, holding up my own test. He has cute hands, I notice – long, slender, tan fingers, which brush against mine as he hands me my paper. I grimace. I knew it wouldn’t be great, but I’d hoped for higher than a forty-six.

“Wish I could keep your grade,” I say, only slightly bitter, and Carlos chuckles.

“I’d rather not keep yours,” he replies with a mischievous smile. I put on an expression of exaggerated affront, and he laughs. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I grin. “You’re not wrong.” He seems on the verge of saying something else, but he doesn’t, and I fleetingly wonder what it was. Carlos is funny in a quiet way, and I imagine that he has a lot of hilarious inside jokes with himself, since no one ever seems to know what he’s thinking. I find myself thinking that whatever is going on inside his head, I’d like to be in on it.

At rehearsal that afternoon, I’m backstage with Nini, while Miss Jenn teaches the others the blocking and dialogue for the scenes before and after Gaston’s song. It’s one of the only scenes in the entire show that Nini has absolutely no involvement in, so we’ve been using the momentary reprieve so she can run lines. There’s one line she gets stuck on every time, and as we run the scene for the fourth time, I have to prompt her again. She groans and buries her head in her hands.

“I can’t do this,” she says desperately. “I’m, like, the worst Belle ever.”

“You’re not,” I say encouragingly. “You have more lines than anyone else.” She gives a non-committal shrug. “Besides, we’ve got until Christmas break to learn them, so it’s not too bad.”

“Easy for you to say,” she says absently, scanning her script again. “You don’t have as many lines as me.” I raise an eyebrow, as she lifts a hand to her mouth and gives a shaky chuckle. “That was so bitchy,” she laughs. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know what? You should be,” I tease. “You’re a real piece of shit.”

“What did you just say?” A voice makes us both jump. It’s EJ, looking disapprovingly at me from the stage door.

“I was joking." I sort of shrug him off, because it would have been obvious that I wasn't serious if he hadn't just walked in and decided to make it his business.

“You called Nini a piece of shit." His voice is soft, and it's slightly frightening. “I personally don’t think that’s okay.” Oh right, like this shitbasket has any right to come in here and lecture me about the fucking moral high ground.

“EJ, it’s alright,” Nini says, officially weirded out, and I can’t blame her.

“I think you should apologise.” He cannot be serious. Except clearly he is, because he’s still staring intensely at me.

“Sorry,” I say, suddenly abashed. My cheeks are hot, and I'm pretty sure I've gone red. Why the hell am I feeling bad about this? He looks satisfied, and turns to Nini. “We’re done blocking. Miss Jenn wants to run the scene with the song.” Not sure why he’s looking at Nini since this message is very clearly meant for me, but whatever.

“I’ll be right there,” I say, clearing my throat uncomfortably. His gaze rests on Nini a little longer, then he turns to leave. Nini and I share an awkward look, and I silently curse him with some kind of uncomfortable plague, ideally boils or sores. I’m officially never more pleased to see someone leaving a room than when it’s EJ Fucking Caswell.

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 25 th, 3:44pm_

_I should be writing a history essay right now, but I only just read your email from this morning, so that’s what I’m doing right now. If you’re in the mood for a joke, someone told me yesterday that I should stop procrastinating. I told them I’d stop tomorrow (ba-dum- tss)! Sorry, I couldn’t resist._

_Man, your Thanksgiving sounds awesome. Everything was pretty quiet here, to be honest. I’m finding that I say that about most major holidays, actually. Maybe my life isn’t all that interesting? I spent the weekend at home with my mom, but my dad’s coming into town this weekend, because it’s the first weekend of Advent, which is a big deal for Catholics. I’m not so fussed myself, but he and my mom are pretty hardcore, and I can go along with it._

_I mean, the celebrations are pretty chill. Basically, there are five candles which each represent different things, and you light a new one on each Sunday leading up to Christmas. We also get one tall candle, which doesn’t mean anything, but has the numbers 1 through 24 printed down the side, and you burn it to the day that you’re on. Catholics LOVE candles. There you go, Flounder. Some free religious ed. for you. Never let it be said that these emails are a waste of time._

_On a more serious note… maybe I’m crazy, but I’m seriously considering biting the bullet and coming out to my parents this weekend. Or at least my dad, since I don’t see him as often. I don’t know what’s changed, exactly, but for the first time in my life I feel as though I actually want them to know this about me, rather than feeling desperately that I have to keep it hidden. Am I crazy?_

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 25 th, 6:16pm_

_Yeah, don’t quit your day job for a career in comedy, Churro. Good lord. Also how did I not realise your family’s religious? And here I’ve been, swearing like a freaking sailor. My bad. Let me know if it makes you uncomfortable._

_And wow. I mean, WOW. I don’t think you’re crazy. Crazy brave, possibly. But if you’re ready to tell them, then you totally should! I’m nervous and super excited for you!! Let me know how it goes, yeah?_

_While we’re on the subject, I think it’s ridiculous that we have to come out. Like, straight people don’t have to come out. Regardless of what their sexualities turn out to be, none of my siblings will ever have to go up to my parents and say, “Hey, Mom, Dad, I’m straight.” Unless it’s the youngest one and all of the rest of us turn out not to be straight. That would be pretty funny, to be fair._

_I don’t know if I’m making sense here, but do you know what I mean? Why is straight the default?_

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 26 th, 7:37am_

_You never make me uncomfortable, Flounder. That said, I think I’m hilarious, and frankly, I’m a little offended that you clearly don’t think so._

_Thanks, by the way. I suppose I’m just anxious because I genuinely have no idea how they’re going to react. I mean, according to most Catholics, being gay is Bad, but then again, divorce is also Bad and they didn’t have too much of a problem with that. It’s just that you hear stories of people whose parents are casually or severely homophobic, but then they march in the Pride parade. On the other hand, there are those who are okay with it until their own kid comes out, and they can’t handle it._

_I think you’re making perfect sense – I think straight people should have to come out. Straight shouldn’t be the default any more than white should be the default. It’s fun to imagine friends walking up to their parents and telling them that they’re heterosexual. I hereby declare_ this _to be the Homosexual Agenda._

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_November 26 th, 7:58am_

_The Homosexual Agenda. I like it. Or maybe, since it applies to all people, how about the Homo Sapiens Agenda? It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?_

_By the way, I’m supposed to be packing my backpack to go to school right now. But here I am, emailing you. You’re very distracting, you know that?_

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_November 26 th, 8:02am_

_That’s really good! The Homo Sapiens Agenda. Have you ever considered advertising? Have a good day, Flounder._

_And I’m glad you find me distracting, otherwise it really wouldn’t be very fair._

_Churro_


	6. An Act of Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EJ's grip on Seb intensifies, Seb and Marshall have A Moment, and Flounder and Churro learn some home truths.

Friday’s rehearsal starts off as, well, a bit of a fiasco. Miss Jenn calls us together, announces that she has to attend some sort of faculty meeting until four, tells us to make a start, then promptly vanishes. At first nobody moves, and we just sort of stand there looking at each other. I think we were all a little bit like, _uh, what just happened?_ With Miss Jenn gone, we all look to Marshall for direction, whose eyes widen. He always says he finds it hard to micromanage, which is hilarious when you consider he’s our stage manager.

We basically do nothing for a few minutes, then I ask Marshall, “So, uh, is there anything we should be doing?” As if that doesn’t sound suggestive. Like, _“Hey, Marshall, should we be running backstage to have some seriously incredible sex right now?”_ He doesn’t seem to notice though, so we end up practising a couple of songs around the piano.

However, in the absence of any clear instructions, people gradually drift off and start messing around. Eventually, I hear Marshall mutter something along the lines of, “Fuck it,” and leans against the piano and starts chatting with me. As we talk, I absently start playing the introduction of ‘If I Could Tell Her’ from _Dear Evan Hansen_. His eyes light up, and he starts singing Evan’s part softly, and my jaw sort of drops a little. I had _no idea_ he could sing, and suddenly he’s like four times more attractive. Which is saying something.

When we reach the second chorus, I join in with Zoe’s part, smiling slightly as he switches into his falsetto range to hit the top notes. I mean, props to him, since it’s pretty difficult, but in my defence, I didn’t know he would sing it. When we finish, a smattering of applause comes from the people hanging out on the stage. He spins around, as if he hadn’t realised people were listening, and his tanned skin flushes darker. “That was nice,” he says, smiling at me.

“Yeah, it was,” I say. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

“I don’t show it off,” he says with a modest shrug. “Not when this room is so consistently filled with people more talented than me.”

“You should try out next year,” I suggest, and he chuckles.

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head vigorously. “Singing I can do, but I can’t act to save my life.”

“Fair enough,” I grin.

“Anyway,” he says, drumming a three-beat rhythm on the top of the piano, “I should probably go and rally the troops. Miss Jenn’ll be back before too long.”

“Roger that,” I reply, as if that’s not the dorkiest thing I could possibly have said. He offers me a final smile, and I notice a dimple in his right cheek I’ve not seen before. I sigh silently as he leaves, and hardly hear Nini calling my name.

“Seb,” she says loudly, and I jump. “You’re, like, a million miles away. You okay?”

“Yup,” I say, popping my lips on the ‘p’. “Are you?” Before she can answer, EJ slinks into view, and a figurative frost descends.

“Didn’t know Miss Jenn had a faculty meeting today,” he says. Or _hello_ , as most people say to open a conversation.

“Didn’t know you organised her calendar,” I shoot back. He looks straight at me and gives me a cold smile. It’s kind of creepy.

“Hey, Seb,” he says. “I think you should meet my brother. I think the two of you would have a lot in common.” My ears burn. I could kill him.

“That’s sweet,” Nini says with some surprise.

“Isn’t it,” I say, my voice hard with warning. EJ seems disconcerted by the implicit threat, and seems to falter a bit.

“I’m, uh…” You’re what, EJ? A total asshole, who’s perfectly willing to hold these fucking emails over my head forever, and keep my sexuality hostage as long as you get what you want?

He shoots Nini a fairly easy smile and turns to go, and my vocal chords activate before I can stop them. “Hey, EJ?” He turns around curiously. “I wondered if you guys wanted to go to Chunga’s after rehearsal – maybe grab some food, run lines, or something?”

“Are you serious?” Nini says, her eyebrows lifting. “Seb, that’s such a good idea, thank you.”

“Yeah, I’m down.” EJ shrugs casually, and I really, really hate myself right now. Still not as much as I loathe EJ, though. “That’d be great, actually.”

“You’re the best,” Nini says with a smile, booping me on the nose. Except I’m sort of the worst person alive, with the possible exception of EJ.

We head to the parking lot after rehearsal, and EJ has the audacity to stand by the front passenger door while I fumble with the keys. I give him a truly filthy glare and he meekly steps to his left to the back seats. I roll my eyes as I get in, and a minute or so later Nini catches us up and slides into the passenger seat. I can’t believe I’m about to spend my Friday night reading lines with EJ Caswell, of all people.

It turns out EJ’s way of flirting – if it can be called that – is asking a great deal of questions.

“You like burritos?”

“Yep,” she says, smiling a little awkwardly. “That’s why I got one.” He nods wildly, like one of those little dog models you put in the back of cars. She catches my eye and bites back a smile.

“You’re from San Francisco, right?”

“Yeah, do you know it?”

“Not really,” he admits. “But my brother’s at college there.” EJ’s brother. The second bane of my life. “So why did you leave San Fran?” he asks, dipping a chip into a jar of salsa and putting it into his mouth whole. It’s possible that he’s overestimated the strength of the salsa, because he immediately starts coughing surreptitiously into a napkin. It’d be a shame if he choked to death.

“One of my moms got a new job,” she shrugs. “Or, more accurately, a different role in the same job.”

“What’s the job, exactly?”

“She works for a law firm,” Nini says, taking a bite out of her burrito. “She got promoted to the branch manager for Salt Lake City.” He nods, looking at her so intensely that his eyes sort of glaze over.

“Do you like it here?” he asks, and I roll my eyes as I suck Pepsi through a rapidly disintegrating paper straw.

“Sure, it’s nice enough,” she says through a mouthful of ground beef and beans. “I miss the city life.”

“This is a city,” I chip in, speaking for almost the first time since we arrived.

“If you ask me,” she says mischievously, “anywhere that has the word ‘city’ in its name probably isn’t a very good one.” EJ bursts out laughing, and we both kind of give him a double take. It was quite funny, but it wasn’t _that_ funny.

“Did you do theatre at your old school?” he asks when he’s recovered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Gross. Nini seems to pretend not to notice. She’s honestly too good for this world.

“Yeah,” she says, sipping her iced tea. “Freshman year we did _High School Musical_ , and last year we did _Gypsy_. I didn’t have lead roles in either, so it was a nice surprise to get one here.”

“You didn’t get the lead?” EJ says, his eyebrows nearly up to his quiff. “I can’t believe that.”

“Well, thanks,” she says with a smile. He lets his arm rest on the table, less than two inches from hers. Immediately her smile tightens and she shifts her arm further away. it’s almost painful to watch.

“So,” I say, before EJ can chime in with another deeply thought-provoking question. “Shall we run lines?”

“Yes, let’s,” Nini says, swallowing a mouthful of burrito and digging into her backpack for her script. “Can we run the scene after ‘Belle’ when Belle and Gaston meet for the first time?”

It’s a little bit of a travesty. Between them, Nini and EJ make up two of the three main roles in the show. We’re supposed to be off-book within three weeks, and they’re struggling to make it further than a few lines at a time.

“Ugh, this is exhausting,” Nini groans after half an hour of the same four lines. She pretzels her arms and buries her face in the crook of her elbow.

“You got this,” I say, poking the thin stretch of her forehead that’s still visible.

“Okay, yeah,” she says, sitting up and shaking her head. “We got this.”

“Attagirl,” I grin.

“I need more sustenance, though,” she says firmly. “Would it be weird if I ordered churros?” EJ shoots me a sly look. I know exactly what he’s thinking, and I hate him for it.

“I think it would be weird if you didn’t,” he says innocently.

It’s pouring with rain by the time I drive home. EJ’s offered Nini a lift home, as it’s on his way, so it’s just me, Troye Sivan, and the sound of the rain on the windshield. As I pass Ricky’s house I see Gina’s car pulling out of his driveway. I wave, but the rain’s so heavy that I can only just see her tail-lights, so there’s no way she can see me. Realistically I know they hang out without me. Hell, we all hang out without one member of the group sometimes, and in theory I’m fine with that. But tonight, I seem to have been unmissed by Ricky and Gina, and I certainly wasn’t either needed or wanted with EJ and Nini tonight. I guess I just feel unnecessary sometimes. And I hate it.

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 2 nd, 8:08am_

_Okay, I’ve been wanting to ask this all weekend but I was very restrained. Now, though, the weekend is over, and I have no more inhibitions. Did you tell your dad????_

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 2 nd, 3:29pm_

_Here’s the thing: I didn’t exactly do it. I was all set – I had a speech planned and everything! We’d done the little ceremony, lit the first candle, said a prayer, then he took me out to dinner. So far, so good, right?_

_Conversation was fairly standard at first, then, as ever, he asked me if I have a girlfriend yet. Obviously, I was thinking, ‘Perfect opportunity,’ when he reaches into his backpack and hands me – of all the inappropriate gifts – a copy of_ Lady Chatterley’s Lover _._

_Obviously, I was thinking, ‘Please, God, let this be a joke.’ He then quickly added that it was, essentially saying, ‘Here’s how not to do relationships and sex and stuff.’ Rest assured, Dad, I will not._

_Firstly, if you ask me, what kind of present is that for a sixteen-year-old boy?! Then, of course, it completely threw off my rhythm, and I couldn’t work out how to swing the conversation back around to the topic of, you know, my coming out. I think I laughed slightly? Honestly, Flounder, it was the weirdest interaction I’ve ever had with another human being. I suppose it shows how absolutely clueless parents can be._

_With hindsight… maybe this wasn’t the best time anyway. More than anything, since I live with my mom most of the time, I think she would be hurt if I told my dad before her. Ideally, I’d sit them both down and tell them together, but I can’t really see how that’s feasible with divorced parents. It’s not as though they can’t stand being in the same room, but you can understand that it’s difficult to engineer situations to get them both together._

_That isn’t to say I’m not a tiny bit pissed off that I didn’t get to tell anyone this weekend, so I’ll tell you. Hey, Flounder, I’m gay!_

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 2 nd, 5:42pm_

_Of course I’m disappointed for you, but I’m so proud of you for reaching a point where you feel that you’re ready. I’m starting to feel that way, too, actually. I haven’t worked out exactly who I would tell first, but it’s a start, right?_

_You should know that I laughed out loud when I read your email._ Lady Chatterley’s Lover _?! That’s such a weird thing to buy your child as a present. Not to diss your parents, but your dad’s weird, dude. I get uncomfortable when my parents even bring up the topic of sex. Or ‘intercourse’, as my mom refers to it. I don’t know why sex is considered (myself included) to be such a weird thing. Like, I know how it works, and I know we each wouldn’t exist without it, but it’s super gross to think about the idea of your parents doing it. Not your parents specifically. You know what I mean._

 _Also, in case you’re ever curious enough to be tempted, please, for the love of God, don’t read the book. My friends and I read some extracts at a sleepover once, for a laugh. I think we were all a little bit scarred, possibly for life. Can you believe that book started out as_ Twilight _fanfiction? WILD. This might be a weird question (as if we’re not used to that) but have you ever read fanfiction? I won’t judge you if you don’t judge me._

_And I see your point about wanting to tell your mom first. I genuinely don’t know I’d pick to be the first person I came out to, IRL that is. My family are all pretty weird. Probably one of my friends, to be honest._

_Wait, you’re gay? Churro, I had no idea! Full disclosure, I’m totally gay too. What a crazy coincidence, huh?_

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com  
**To:** time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 2 nd, 10:00pm_

_You’re gay too?? This is wild. Maybe I should email you based on this fact, get to know you really well and get to like you. Oh wait!_

_I have to say, I wasn’t even considering reading it until you told me not to. Yep, I’m_ that _kind of person. It was the same with_ Fifty Shades of Grey _,_ _I didn’t read that until someone told me not to._ _Did you know it started as_ Twilight _fanfiction? I never actually read or saw_ Twilight _when it was popular. You know how everyone has a phase where they’re either obsessed with it or loathe it with a passion? I was very much in the latter group. I think that was probably during my ‘trying to pass as straight’ phase, even if I never actively did anything to prove it!_

_On that topic, I know you said you had a girlfriend in middle school, but apart from that, were there any moments from your childhood where you look back and think, ‘How did I not realise I was gay?’ One Christmas, my parents bought me a Mrs Potato Head to offset my desperation to have a Barbie. I still turned out gay, but nice try, Mom and Dad._

_I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I have a cousin whom we used to visit relatively often (once every couple of months or so), and she used to paint my nails, and I put on her dresses and the like. When I think about it now, I’m sort of mortified, but at the time it was kind of fun? By the way, I’m not saying that sort of thing automatically means you’re gay (I’m pretty sure every kid tries something like that at some point), I’m just saying that maybe the amount of enjoyment it evoked and the realness of the sensations should have been a clue._

_That said, I don’t see how I could ever have seen it coming. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but I didn’t actually realise that being gay was a thing until I went to middle school. It just wasn’t mentioned at home. My parents never brought it up at all, either to condone or condemn. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous about telling them, as I genuinely have no idea what they think about it._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 3 rd, 8:27am_

_You never saw_ Twilight _?? Okay, I never read the books, but who had time for anything except Harry Potter at that age? We have to watch it at some point, though. It’s one of those things that’s an actual classic, despite the fact that it’s absolutely God-awful. One of those things that’s so bad, it’s funny._

 _Speaking of so bad, it’s funny – yes, I do have one or two of those moments. My obsession with the musical_ Hairspray _can not be overlooked. Again, I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, but I once stole a can of hairspray from a supermarket so I could try and do my hair like they do in the musical. I have literally never told anyone that before._

 _Moving very swiftly on, I remember cringing at any scene in a movie which had kissing. And, I know, every kid does. But this went on until I was, like, twelve. I know I told you_ Kingsman _was my sexual awakening (please ignore the horrible implications of this statement) but I must say I started watching_ Friends _a few months before. You’ve seen it, right? Anyway, the very first episode, there’s that revelation that Ross’ ex-wife was a lesbian, and I was like, what the heck is a lesbian? Did some research, saw some things that definitely should not have been seen by a 12-year-old struggling with his sexuality, and discovered that people can like people of the same gender. It was at that point that I was, like, ‘Ohhhhhh.’_

 _Also, the Mrs Potato Head story? Fucking hilarious. I laughed out loud in the middle of_ The Voice _(don’t judge me, my parents seem to only watch reality television)._

_As for your zero-awareness? That’s got the Homo Sapiens Agenda written all over it. No offence to your parents, but I think the journey to self-discovery is easier to everyone when you know what you’re looking for, if that makes sense. That’s why it’s important that there’s good representation in TV and movies, I think. Like, how different would our experience of sexuality have been if we’d seen gay characters in the shows we watched as kids? Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk._

_Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 3 rd, 4:02pm_

_Well, well, well, Flounder – I had no idea I was in liaison with a wanted felon. Please tell me more about the hairspray story; I’m thoroughly intrigued by the idea of you as a wanted criminal. Huh, maybe I’m actually into bad boys._

_Carol and Susan – icons. That is all I can say. Seriously though, I’m pretty sure I had the exact same experience, which is a freaky coincidence. That said, I did not delve far enough into my research to experience the same trauma as you did, so my condolences for that._

_By the way, I finally gave in to the temptation and tried to work out what your email address means, but I couldn’t find anything, until yesterday when ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues’ came on the radio. Knowing your love of music, that’s got to be the inspiration, right? Am I likely to see you wearing Elton John t-shirts around school, or is that too much of a giveaway?_

_Also, I think you’re right about the representation thing. I saw an online argument recently about why there should or should not be gay representation in the Marvel movies – no, that blink-and-you-miss-it scene in any Disney movie (Star Wars, Avengers, whatever) does NOT count. Can you tell I’m still disgruntled about that? Anyway, it essentially said that representation should exist because gay people exist, and I thought that was a really good way of putting it. Besides, the Straights have had their turn at representation; now it’s our turn._

_Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 3 rd, 6:37pm_

_No, I don’t wear band t-shirts, for two reasons. Firstly I don’t think I could pull it off. Secondly, I think I’d feel bad about buying a t-shirt with a musician on if I haven’t seen them live, if that makes sense? That said, when I discovered Elton John, I did scour Spotify and listen to every single song he’s ever released. I get obsessed with things fairly easily._

_And yeah, I’m Public Menace No. 1. TOTALLY. Anyway, it’s a lot less badass than it sounds. Firstly, it’s not like I went into a drug store with Intent To Steal, I was just in a supermarket with my dad and sister, and I tucked a can of hairspray into the inside pocket of my coat. It did actually trip the security systems on the way out, but my dad knew we hadn’t stolen anything (or so he thought) so he just shrugged it off, and we left._

_Here’s the totally-not-badass bit. I felt so guilty that the next time we went, I left $6.14 on the checkout register to make up for it. A little extra, considering it only cost like four dollars, but what can I say? I was very extra as a child. Actually, let’s be real. I still am._

_Flounder_


	7. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under considerable duress, Seb spends some quality time with EJ and Nini, and decides it's time for some honesty.

“Where the hell are my soccer shoes?” I jolt awake as my door slams open, and wince at the light pouring through the skylight, since I clearly forgot to shut the blind last night. I glance at the clock and groan.

“Heather, it’s six-thirty in the morning, get out of here.”

“Yes, and I’m trying to pack my stuff for school, and I can’t find my fucking soccer shoes.”

“Why the hell should I know where they are?” I say, pulling on my glasses so she’s more than just a blurry form framing my doorway.

“I saw you wearing them when you collected the eggs last night,” she says, folding her arms and glaring obstinately at me.

“Okay, so you’re full of shit,” I say matter-of-factly. “Firstly, your feet are a size smaller than mine. Second, I didn’t collect the eggs last night, Patrick did.” She looks momentarily daunted. “So why don’t you check your facts, then fuck off and let me sleep?” I climb out of bed, march to the door, push her through it and slam it shut. I fully expect her to simply charge through it again, but after a moment I hear her marching back down the stairs. I sigh and roll my eyes, before tugging down the skylight blind, putting my glasses back on my nightstand and crawling back into bed. Not the best start to the day.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t get back to sleep, which means about an hour and a half later, I’m showered, dressed, shaved, and have my contacts in. By this point, I’m chewing half-heartedly on a piece of toast, nursing a cup of strong coffee and trying to form a coherent response to the email Churro sent me after I went to bed last night. I’m not normally a coffee person – unless it’s iced and has at least one caramel shot in – but today, I’m pretty sure it’ll be the only thing that gets me through the day. I glance up as Heather walks into the kitchen, and scowl at her. She tries to hide it, but I see her shoving her soccer shoes into her sports bag.

“Find them, did you?” I say spitefully.

“No thanks to you,” she shoots back. The absolute damn nerve of this girl. I don’t dignify her with a response, but shoot daggers at her all the while her back’s turned.

Once I’ve finished eating, I brush my teeth, grab my backpack and head out to the car, where Heather’s already waiting.

“We’re picking Ricky up, so you can get in the backseat when we get to his house,” I tell her as we get in.

“Fine,” she says coldly, shrugging. We don’t say a word the whole journey, but she does have the decency to climb into the backseat without being asked as Ricky jogs up his drive.

“Hey,” he says with a grin. “Thanks for the lift.”

“No problem,” I say. “Gina’ll have to drive you home though, I’ve got rehearsal, then I’m going to Chunga’s.”

“That’s alright,” he shrugs. “It was my fault, I’ll sort myself out.”

“Not your fault you got a puncture.”

“Probably is my fault that I don’t know how to change a tyre, though,” he replies, reasonably. “I’ll get my dad to look at it at the weekend. What’s up, Evergreen?” he calls to the backseat. I think it’s a pun on the word heather. He’s practically a dad already. She doesn’t answer, which shows she’s really pissed, because I’m pretty sure she likes Ricky more than she likes me most of the time. He offers me a good-humoured grimace, and I shrug as I flick on my turning signal to turn off the intersection. “Anyway,” he says, eyes a little wider than usual, “you’re going to Chunga’s without me? I’m starting to understand why Gina was so pissed about homecoming.”

“Ugh, trust me, I do _not_ want to go,” I say, sighing deeply. “But Nini and EJ want to hang out somewhere and practise lines.”

“Why do you have to?” he asks. “You know yours.”

“I know,” I say, with a small shrug. “But I just thought it would be a nice thing to do.”

“Since when does anyone want to do anything nice for EJ Caswell?” Ricky chuckles. “The guy’s kind of a loser.”

“Well, so are you, but we don’t complain,” I tease, keen to steer the topic away from my motives for helping EJ.

“I’d thump you,” he says, with the tone of someone considering their options, “but you’re driving.”

“You’re too kind,” I say drily, as I slow down to turn into our school’s road.

At the end of the day, I once again find myself driving Nini and EJ to Chunga’s for food and script-learning. EJ’s already left his script in the auditorium, spilled iced tea on my backseat and referred to the restaurant as “Big Chungus” three times, so needless to say, it’s not exactly going great. Today in rehearsal, Miss Jenn asked us who was off book, and only three of us were actually able to put our hands up – me, the guy playing Cogsworth, and the girl playing Chip (who only has about half a dozen lines anyway). Needless to say, Miss Jenn was none too impressed. Technically we have until the Christmas break, but considering that’s now only a week away… that’s kind of a problem.

That said, the line-reading goes a lot smoother today. We mostly run Nini’s scenes, as she obviously has more lines than me and EJ put together, with me and EJ reading in the other characters. She’s really getting there, and it occurs to me that it was probably a little unfair for her to be lumped in with those who faced Miss Jenn’s wrath this afternoon.

“Okay, I’ve had enough,” she says eventually. “And these quesadillas are crying out to me.”

“No problem,” EJ says brightly. “I’ll take a turn. Can we do the scene leading into the ‘Gaston’ song?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I nod, absently taking one of Nini’s fries. She slaps at my hand, and I make a high-pitched, wounded noise, which sets her off into a fit of giggles. EJ gives me a funny look, which I don’t really know how to decipher. Like, I understand why he would have a problem with someone else being interested in Nini (namely, Ricky) but why’s he giving _me_ a hard time for being friendly with her? He is literally the only person in my life (Churro aside) who knows I’m gay. Why the hell would I be flirting with her? “Uh, from the top?”

He nods, clears his throat and begins, putting on the gravelly voice he uses for Gaston. I’m loathed to admit that it’s actually really good. “Picture it, Le Fou,” he says, “a rustic cabin, my latest kill roasting on the fire, adorable children running around us as my love rubs my tired feet…” he tails off, a dreamy look in his eyes as his gaze drifts towards Nini. I may vomit. “But what does Belle say?” he continues, his face turning sour. “‘I will never marry you, Gaston.’”

“You know there are other girls,” I say, reading in Le Fou’s line, and EJ suddenly looks blank.

“‘A great hunter…’” Nini prompts with her mouth full, and his eyes light up as he remembers the line.

“A great hunter doesn’t waste his time on rabbits,” he says with disdain.

“And that’s where the song comes in,” I say, preparing to turn the page and move onto the next scene, but then the unthinkable happens. He jumps up, scrambles onto his chair and starts his solo from the song.

“ _When I was a lad I ate four dozen eggs…_ ” He’s thrown out his chest and is belting out the lines, his gravelly voice shaking with vibrato at the end of each line. Across the table from each other, Nini and I share a look of combined bewilderment and shock, unable to unglue our eyes from the scene unfolding in front of us, as the entire restaurant falls silent and stares at us. It only lasts about twenty seconds (although obviously it feels about fifty times longer), but it’s enough. He sits down and tucks back into his food as though nothing’s happened.

“Wow,” says Nini after a moment. “That was… quite something.” I can’t quite place her expression. She looks almost impressed. I hastily finish my rolled fajita as I spot a moody-looking server approaching the table.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he says.

“Wait, what?” EJ sounds genuinely surprised, as if he doesn’t know that what he just did is not generally considered to be socially acceptable.

“You’re causing a disturbance,” the server replies. “My manager has asked that you leave.”

“Fine, but we’re not paying,” EJ says defiantly, standing up and preparing to leave. I grab his arm and pinch hard.

“Yes, we damn well are,” I say softly, pulling out my wallet with my other hand.

“I’m so sorry,” Nini says sincerely to the server. I place what I owe on the table, plus a generous tip by way of apology, then we leave together. Nini bursts out laughing as I look at them both in disbelief. “Oh my god,” she says, as her laughter subsides. “EJ, that was priceless. Never do that again,” she adds, trying to be serious.

“If I’m never allowed back in there,” I say, pointing dramatically at the door, “Gina and Ricky will kill me, and it’ll be all your fault.”

“Worth it,” EJ says with a casual shrug, and I can’t help but smile, despite myself. There are times when it almost feels like he’s growing on me.

On the way home, Nini chatters while I hum affirmatives at intervals.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she says eventually. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles. “What’s on your mind?”

“EJ,” I say honestly, after a moment. She chuckles.

“He’s funny,” she says contentedly. “I don’t know why we never hung out before.”

“Yeah?” I ask, hope rising in my chest. “Do you, you know, _like_ him?”

“Oh, no,” she says firmly. “Not like that.”

“So you can’t see anything happening between the two of you?”

She wrinkles her nose and gives me a funny look. “Why do you care?”

“No reason,” I say, less truthfully, as we slow for a red light, even though there’s no one around. I don’t know whether it’s because my hope for EJ’s blackmail has run out, or something else entirely, but suddenly I speak before I can think too much about it. “Nini, I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” she says in surprise. “Go ahead.”

About ten seconds pass before I speak again. My heart is hammering in my chest. “I’m gay.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud.

Her lips curve slightly upwards. “Oh.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” I add quickly. “Nobody else knows yet.”

“So I’m the first?” she asks, and I nod. “Wow, Seb… I’m really honoured.” I think I manage to smile back.

“Are you surprised?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “So you knew?” I add, frowning.

“No, of course not,” she says hastily.

“But you said you weren’t surprised.” I’m very confused now. “How can you not be surprised if you didn’t know?”

Nini smiles again. “Do you want me to be surprised?”

I think about it for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says with a shrug. There’s another pause, then she adds, “I love you, Seb.” I could cry.

“Love you too,” I say, and she boops me on the nose, making me laugh. It’s at that point that I notice the traffic light has turned green, so I press my foot down on the accelerator, and we drive on.

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 6 th, 6:35pm_

_Flounder, I did it. I did it I did it I did it I did it I did it!! I got home from school, and my mom was at home, so I sat her down, and I just told her. I was so nervous, Flounder, it was unreal. In fact, my hands are still shaking as I type this, so I apologise for any typos._

_All things considered, it went pretty well. I think she was a little shocked, but she stayed very calm, and didn’t bring Jesus into it or anything. If anything I’d say she was a little blasé about it, to be honest. That isn’t to say that she didn’t care, but – you know what I mean. She’s a nurse, so I suppose it makes sense that she was very rational._

_It was still a relatively terrifying experience, to be honest. She made sure to emphasise The Importance of Safe Sex, and I’m not sure she fully believed me when I told her that I’m not actually sexually active. Is that flattering? I’m not really sure. Then she stood up, told me to remember to make myself some dinner, hugged me and went to work. It was bizarre: it was as though I’d just told her that I’d had a calculus test today._

_Anyway, I’m in a weird place in my head, so I’m going to go and eat my bodyweight in cookies and watch comedy skits on YouTube until I feel a little more normal._

_Love, Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 6 th, 7:21pm_

_Oh my god, Churro, I am so freaking proud of you right now. I can’t even put into words how much I’m smiling._

_Not to rain on your parade, but I had my own little coming out tonight as well – not my family, but one of my best friends. It felt a little weird, and it was a bit awkward, but she was really supportive, and I feel so good for having told someone._

_Also, as weird as it is to get sex advice from your mom, maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about sex unless it’s with people who blend perfectly simplicity and badassery. And have problems with sentence fragments. And who like food just a little bit too much._

_I know I said I’m proud of you, but fuck it, I’m proud of both of us tonight. It sounds cliché, but we made the first step. Screw everything that went wrong – today was a good day._

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 6 th, 7:54pm_

_It is the first step, and it’s a big one, too. It’s kind of scary, isn’t it? Now that we’ve told people for the first time, that’s_ it _. It’s out._ We’re _out, and the people we told will never be able to un-know it. It’s exciting, though._

_Don’t worry, by the way. I only think about sex with sweet guys who don’t wear band t-shirts, who accidentally name-drop teachers, and commit petty theft only to pay with interest later on. I suppose I have a very specific type._

_I’m completely serious._

_Love, Churro_


	8. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions between Seb and EJ come to a head at the final rehearsal before Christmas.

It’s possible that I might be a little bit obsessed with Churro at this point. It’s all I think about. In my Spanish class on Monday morning, he’s all I can think about. I certainly have no idea what Mrs Morrison is talking about, because all I can think about is Churro, and who he might be, and the fact that he has, at this point, said objectively that he likes me, and that he’s started signing his emails with ‘Love’. I’m jittery and excited and anxious, all at the same time. It’s a little overwhelming.

More and more, I find myself glancing around classrooms and hallways, trying to work out who it could be, based on what he’s told me. But honestly, he hasn’t told me that much that could give him away. Not like me, who’s happy to casually name-drop teachers in emails. Idiot. As I look around, though, I just see the same old faces. When I see that our unfortunate teacher has a wedgie, and turn around to see if Ricky’s noticed too, and he’s just sat there grinning, having already spotted it. Gina pretending she’s not listening to Nini’s excitable anecdotes but smiling at the table at the funny parts. The silent looks of despair I share with Carlos when someone at the table says something stupid (usually Big Red). Kourtney and Ashlyn making eyes at the football players a few tables over. And EJ, who always seems to be in my peripheral vision at the moment, which is infuriating.

The other thing on my mind is that it’s been three days since I came out to Nini, and I still haven’t told Gina and Ricky. I know I’m not obliged to, but I _want_ to. But despite that, it’s so much harder than telling Nini, for some reason. That said, so far I’ve only hung out with them once since then, and I decided early on that I’m not doing it over text. Since Friday, I’ve discovered that I rather like saying it out loud. Although it’s not like I’ve not been saying it in front of the mirror for the sheer thrill of hearing the words and acknowledging that it’s true. Don’t know what you’re talking about.

That afternoon, we’re hanging out at Ricky’s, as usual. His parents just announced at the weekend that they’re getting divorced, and he’s pretty torn up about it, so I made up some excuse to get out of rehearsal to be with him. To take his mind off it, I’m letting him show me how to play _Grand Theft Auto_ , while Gina’s driven to Dairy Queen for milkshakes. I think about how easy it would be to tell him, in this moment, while we’re shooting up a group of cops, which I have to admit is pretty satisfying. But for some reason, I don’t. Maybe it’s because Gina would then officially be the last to know, and I think that would hurt her.

“No, no, Seb, that’s me!” he exclaims suddenly, and I’m broken out of my reverie. I was so distracted that my character was shooting at his instead of the police.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, as he shoots me an unimpressed look.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“No, I promise I didn’t,” I say, starting to laugh, and he cracks a smile as well. He respawns, and we keep playing until Gina returns, holding three large cardboard cups. “You’re the best,” I call in a sing-song voice, and she smirks as she crosses the room towards us.

“I know,” she says with a shrug, and she jerks her head to evict me from the chair, which I begrudgingly do. I don’t normally sit in them, because house rules dictate that they’re the gaming chairs. They’re super comfy though. I’m starting to see how Ricky and Gina sometimes go an hour or two without moving. I sip at my milkshake and grimace.

“Is this banana?” Almost simultaneously, Ricky gags on the one he’s holding.

“Caramel,” he says with a sour expression. “Am I not suffering enough for you or something?” he adds, passing the cup over to me. I hand him his and give Gina a quizzical look.

“Whoops,” Gina says, looking apologetic. “Thought I’d remembered which was which.”

“And yet you conveniently remembered which was yours,” Ricky grumbles.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says innocently, and I manage a smile. As practical jokes go, that one was pretty harmless for Gina.

There’s a gap in conversation as Ricky incorporates Gina into the game. Now. This is my moment. I should just tell them. _Hey, guys? I’m gay. Thought you should know._ But I don’t. I just sit there, mouth clamped firmly closed over my straw. Suddenly the game starts up, and just like that, the moment’s passed. I curse myself silently, and continue not-telling them for the rest of the time that I’m there.

I don’t even know why I’m not telling them, or why it’s so much harder than before. I suppose we have ideas in our heads of who people are, and something like this can – even though it shouldn’t – entirely change that idea. Which is ridiculous when you think about it, because I can’t control what Ricky and Gina think about me. Except that, in this case, I can. I think that’s what makes coming out a big deal. It’s like you’re saying, _You don’t get to make assumptions about me anymore. This is who I am._

But for some reason, that’s a hard thing to say to these guys. I mean, I’ve known one of them since I was five, and the other since I was eleven. That’s a long time, and it’s a long time to build up a picture of someone. I’d say they probably know me better than anyone (possibly excluding Churro, at this point), and yet there’s still this big thing they don’t know.

My phone vibrates, and it’s a text from Extreme Jackass (known to everyone but my phone’s contacts as EJ). _so where r we going now instead of big chungus?_ I roll my eyes and swipe the notification away. Would it kill him to type in full sentences?

And this whole ‘not really knowing anything’ thing? I’m guilty of it too. It’s been six years, and I’ve never asked Gina why she only lives with her mom. Nor am I asking now what’s going on with Ricky’s parents. Or why Gina always seems so on edge around Nini. It’s things like that, which make me wonder how well I actually know anybody. Or how well anybody knows me.

It’s about 6pm when my phone starts buzzing with an incoming call from my dad, which no doubt means I need to come home for dinner. I’m actually relieved that I can stop sitting here feeling guilty about not telling Gina and Ricky. I say goodbye, and Ricky actually pauses the game to stand up and give me a hug, which is nice. I just wish I could get this whole coming out thing over with, so that I can go back to feeling normal. Or maybe I’ll never feel normal again, and we’ll have to make a new normal. Maybe that would be okay. But I’ll never know without telling them.

Saturday is the first day of winter break, and of course I’m spending it at school. It’s sort of a tradition. Everyone rocks up to rehearsal in pyjamas, and for the sake of everyone’s sanity, we pretend we’re not taking it too seriously, even though we’re all acutely aware that opening night is only like a month away at this point.

I’m sat on the stage with Nini and a few of the other theatre girls, eating bite-sized brownies out of a plastic tub, when Marshall wanders over. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I say, shifting over so that he can join us. “Nice polka dots,” I add, nodding to his pyjama pants.

He smiles. “Nice dinosaurs.” Okay, I know it’s not exactly normal for a seventeen-year-old boy to have dinosaurs on his pyjamas, but it’s thirty-seven degrees outside, and these are the warmest pair I could find. I glance at the book he’s nestled in his lap, just to see if it’s _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_. Obviously it’s not – who in their right mind would bring that to school? – but never mind. It’s _A Tale of Two Cities_ , so either it’s for his English class, or he just likes reading classic novels, which means he’s kind of a nerd, which is cute. I’m about to ask him about it when Miss Jenn appears suddenly, putting her thumb and forefinger between her lips and whistling loudly. The entire room jumps and falls into a stunned silence, and she looks rather pleased with herself.

“Okay, pyjama people,” she beams. “Here’s the plan: we’re going to try and run the whole thing this morning. I know it’ll be messy, but that’s the point. We’re highlighting problem areas.” We nod, and she keeps going. “Then when we’ve finished – bows and all – we’ll stop for an hour for pizza, work on the issues, then run it all again before we go home. Sound good?” EJ lets out a whoop, and a chuckle reverberates around the room. “Any questions?” she finishes with a smile in EJ’s direction.

“Scripts or no scripts?” someone asks.

“You can have them this morning,” Miss Jenn says, “but I want you off-book by this afternoon.” Nini lets out a tiny, barely-audible whimper, and Miss Jenn claps her hands once. “Excellent. Oh, Sebastian, we’re using backing tracks for the run today, so you can just focus on your scenes.” Finally, she’s seen sense.

“Seb,” Nini hisses, shaking my shoulder in a quiet, but frenzied panic. “I can’t do this.”

“You’re doing the thing,” I say gently, and she looks blankly at me. “The English accent you do when you’re nervous.” She groans and thrusts me her script, flipping through the pages like it’s one of those flickbook cartoons.

“But there’s so much I don’t know,” she says desperately, still doing the accent.

“You do know it,” I say, snatching her script off her, rolling it up and bopping her lightly on the head with it. “You got this.”

“Thank you,” she says, forcing a deep breath and taking her script back. “I’ll see you at the interval.” She turns and walks away, but I call after her.

“British!”

“Damn it!” And she’s back.

“You weren’t just talking to me, were you?” says a curious voice. I spin around and see Marshall giving me a funny look. “’Cause I’m pretty sure you know my name.”

“Oh, god, no,” I say with a laugh. “Nini does this thing where she talks in a British accent when she gets nervous. She doesn’t normally notice.”

“No such thing as a British accent,” he remarks with a mischievous grin.

“Whatever,” I say good-humouredly, rolling my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, then we’re quiet for a moment. “Well, break a leg.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Don’t be too mean to us in your notes.” He chuckles and wanders off. Across the stage, I see Nini giving me a knowing look and wiggling her eyebrows. I check EJ isn’t watching, then flip her the bird and start to walk away.

“Sebastian!” says Miss Jenn sharply, and I jump. Whoops. Forgot to check she wasn’t looking.

“Sorry, Miss Jenn,” I say automatically, and hastily retreat into the wings ready for the first scene.

All in all, it goes quite well – it’s pretty messy, and a little bit stop-and-start, but it’s good. Especially considering it’s our first full run-through. As promised, pizza arrives about ten minutes after we finish bowing, and we dive in, then Miss Jenn gives us a little under an hour to eat, chat and let off some steam. We wind up sitting around the piano singing various Disney songs, which is fun. Not to toot our own horns, but we sound _awesome_. About a half hour into our break, Louie, one of the sophomore boys, practically skids up to the piano.

“Guys,” he says, practically vibrating with enthusiasm, “come see what I found in one of the supply closets.”

“I’m not even going to ask why you were looking,” I say drily as we follow him out of the auditorium. He leads us down one of the hallways until we reach an open door. Nini catches us up, having fallen behind for some reason. We peer in, and see a few tattered swivel chairs and half a dozen mops.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Louie asks excitedly.

“Ice hockey roller chair derby?” Nini says, and he nods. “Let’s do it.”

We lay down some ground rules. Divide into pairs: one sits in the chair, legs crossed, while the other pushes the chair down the hallway with the mop. First team to reach the double doors at the end wins. Simple enough in theory, but it turns out to be a lot harder than it looks. Well, I say that, but I end up paired with Marshall, and I sit on the chair, so my only job is to not fall off the thing. We take a few turns, and on the final race, it’s me and Marshall against Nini and Louie. We jostle our way down the hallway, cheering and shouting, and bursting with laughter at the ridiculousness of the game. Marshall and I barely win, but then Nini’s chair crashes into mine. We both tip over and crash onto the floor in a heap, giggling like toddlers on a sugar high. I happen to glance up the doors, and see EJ looking through, looking absolutely livid.

He corners me a few minutes later as I’m fetching my water bottle from my backpack. His face is neutral, but I sense danger in his eyes and take a step away from him. Obviously he’s a threat because of the blackmail, but I’ve never actually felt scared of him. Until now, that is.

“What was all that about?” he demands, and I genuinely have no idea what he’s referring to.

“What was what about?”

“You know what? Doesn’t matter,” he says, taking another step towards me. I take another one back, and jolt to a stop as my back is now pressed against the wall. “It’s off, by the way,” he adds. “You and your emails. It’s over.” Six weeks ago, I’d have given anything to hear him say that. Now, though, somehow it’s not reassuring.

“W– why?”

“She shot me down,” he says, and comprehension dawns. “About, oh, fifteen minutes before she draped herself all over you.”

“Oh.” I don’t really know what else to say. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Tell Miss Jenn I’ll see her in January.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Yup,” he says, turning and walking away. He holds up his middle finger over his shoulder as he goes, without turning round. “Merry fucking Christmas, Sebastian,” he says. “I hope you’re fucking happy.”

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 14 th, 11:24am_

_So, uh, something happened yesterday which I need to talk to someone about. Let me set the scene._

_When I arrive at home from school, both of my parents are sat together on the couch in our living room. Bear in mind: the last time I walked in on that particular scene ten years ago, they announced that they were splitting up. Immediately I’m on edge, obviously, as they sit me down and tell me they have something to tell me. You can imagine what I’m thinking: ‘Oh my god, my mom’s told my dad that I’m gay.’_

_She hasn’t, obviously._

_So, as it turns out, my stepmom is pregnant. They found out a couple of weeks ago, but were waiting until the ten-week scan to tell us, which means she’s due in June. My dad came over to break the news to me and my mom, and brought the sonogram picture with him, to confirm that Little Fetus is definitely in there. I’m really not sure how to take it._

_I guess I’m excited? But I’ve been an only child all my life, and I have no idea what it’s like to have siblings, with the exception of everything you’ve told me about your family. Should I be excited?_

_I’m sorry I’m being a bit of a downer today, but I could really use some cheering up, or distractions, or something. Do your thing._

_Love, Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 14 th, 5:50pm_

_I actually had kind of a weird experience today too, but admittedly far less than yours._

_Wow. I mean, wow. I don’t really know what to say, to be honest. I stepped in dog poop getting out of my car this morning. That’s funny, right? Although I didn’t think so at the time._

_I can’t really imagine what you’re going through. I haven’t been an only child since I was two, so I can’t at all remember getting the news I was getting a baby sister. Let’s hope you’re getting a brother, though – sisters are the worst. Just kidding. Mostly._

_More than anything, I guess it’s weird to have to acknowledge that your parents still have sex. By the way, having to tell people about a pregnancy is totally the straight-people version of coming out._

_On a serious note, though – yes, you really should be excited. I was eleven when my youngest brother was born, and it was awesome being old enough to help look after him. And now, he’s my little buddy, and I love him to pieces. That kid is going to love you SO much, Churro. Try not to worry too much, yeah?_

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands.@gmail.com_  
_December 14 th, 6:42pm_

_Sorry to hear about your weird experience. Do you want to talk about it?_

_And your poop story did actually make me smile, and since I thought nothing would today, I really appreciate that, as gross as it was. I really hope you cleaned your shoes properly!_

_Oh, God. Honestly, I was so caught up in the revelation of having a new sibling that it hadn’t even occurred to me that my dad and stepmom would have had to have sex for this to happen. Now I’m struggling to think about anything else, so thanks a lot for that, Flounder._

_Genuinely, though, thanks for the encouragement. I hadn’t really thought about the aspect of being more like an uncle figure to this kid, and I am actually feeling a lot better about it, so thank you._

_Love, Churro_

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 14 th, 7:21pm_

_Unfortunately, there’s not a lot I can say without giving away even more about myself than I’ve already let slip. But thanks for asking. And of course I washed my shoes properly – what do you take me for?_

_I realise this might not be the best time to bring this up, and I’ve spent the last 35 minutes deleting and retyping this, but I’m just going to come out (heh!) and say it: I think we should meet in person._

_Love, Flounder_


	9. Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas arrives, and certain truths come to light that Seb would rather keep under wraps.

In almost every way, Christmas Eve is exactly like it always has been. Heather and I begin our unspoken Christmas truce, and we make French toast for breakfast, while my parents go to the barn to feed and take out the animals.

When our parents return, Heather calls for the other three (who are obviously awake – it is Christmas Eve, after all) and we sit down and eat breakfast together. Between school, extra-curriculars, play rehearsals and farm work, we don’t often get to eat together, so we make sure that we do at Christmas, Thanksgiving and on our birthdays. I pass out a piece of toast each, while Heather retrieves syrup, jam, peanut butter and various other condiments. As usual, my dad bemoans the lack of coffee, and as usual, my mom reminds him that neither Heather nor I know how to work the cafetière.

Everything is completely and utterly normal – except for the fact that it isn’t.

I don’t know what it is, but something feels off. Maybe the toast isn’t quite as good this year. Maybe it’s because Caleb is asking repeatedly for orange juice instead of milk, like he usually does. Maybe it’s because Heather keeps smiling at her phone, when we normally have a no-cell-phone rule on Christmas Eve breakfast. Maybe it’s because Churro _still_ doesn’t want me to know who he is, which means we still can’t meet in person. Maybe there’s nothing different at all. Maybe I’ve changed.

Another of our traditions is that each of us kids chooses one board game to play across the holiday period, starting today. It’s another activity we don’t get to do all that often for the rest of the year, so we make sure we do it at Christmas. We pull straws for who gets to choose first, and Tina wins, so while we’re clearing the breakfast table, she dashes upstairs to choose one.

She returns with Clue!, and my parents look sceptical. The twins got it for their birthday this year, but we haven’t played it with Caleb yet.

“Will Caleb be able to play that?” my dad asks doubtfully.

“Well, there’re too many of us, so we’ll have to form teams anyway,” I point out.

“Fair point,” he says, wandering behind the kitchen counter to make some coffee.

“I want to be with Seb,” he says, predictably. I wasn’t kidding when I told Churro that his new sibling would end up following him around like a puppy.

“Come on then, Skip,” I say, and he clambers up onto my lap. I should probably explain: when he was a toddler, Caleb learned to walk fairly normally, but when he tried running, all he could manage – for nearly six months – was this funny sort of gallop, or skip. Unsurprisingly, the nickname stuck, and now he’s Skip. But only to me.

“Patrick and I can team up, too,” Tina says. “That works, right?”

“Six players,” my mom murmurs, scanning her eyes over the teams, counting. “Six teams! Let’s do it.”

The game gets underway, a little slower than usual since we’re trying to explain to Caleb what’s going on. It almost immediately becomes obvious that he doesn’t really get it, but he insists on joining in anyway (“I’m nearly _six_ ,” he announces firmly).

“Dad, it’s been your turn for the last five minutes,” Heather says flatly, as he continues to glance between the board and his checksheet, mouthing things to himself and squinting at the rest of us, trying to read our faces. “It’s not _CSI: Salt Lake City_.”

“This is serious,” he says gravely. “A man has died, Heather.” We all laugh, because he’s ridiculous, then he finally, says, “Okay, here we go. Professor Plum, in the dining room, with… the… axe.” He looks so pleased with himself, but immediately Tina shows him a card, and he thumps the table in disappointment. “Thought I had it,” he grumbles, crossing something off his sheet. “Your turn, Patrina.” That’s what he calls the twins when he’s referring to them collectively, reputedly to save time. I’m not completely sure they like it, but they don’t complain. Patrick rolls the dice, they briefly confer, and then Tina moves their piece into the kitchen. They’re still having a whispered debate about their accusation when the doorbell rings.

“Are we expecting anyone?” my mom asks with a frown, and my dad shakes his head.

“I’ll go,” I say, shifting Caleb gently from my lap to my chair. I jog down the hallway, open the front door and blink in surprise. Ricky offers me an awkward smile, and Gina does a little half-wave. “Hey,” I say, more than a little bemused. I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me. “What are you doing here?”

“We were just, uh, out for a walk,” Ricky says, plunging his hands deep into the pocket of his bodywarmer. If I wasn’t on edge before, I definitely am now.

“I can literally see both your cars.”

“We came to see how you were,” Gina says, sounding more casual.

“I’m fine,” I say, guard still up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” Ricky says, far too fast. Gina shoots him a look, and he looks back down at his sneakers.

“Guys, what’s going on?” I ask, a feeling of panic taking root in the pit of my stomach. They look uncomfortably at each other. “Oh my god, did you hook up?”

“No, Seb!” Gina says with a shudder. “God, no.”

“Then what?”

“Seb!” someone yells from inside the house. I jump at the sound, muffled as it is through the closed door.

“Go,” Gina says, gesturing to the house. “Merry Christmas, Seb. I mean it. Happy Hanukkah,” she adds to Ricky, before wandering back to her car. I look at him, desperate for an explanation. Like I’ve said, I’ve known him for twelve years: I know all his facial expressions, and this is not one I’m familiar with.

“Call us if you need us,” he says cryptically, then he wanders back to his own car, leaving me absolutely stumped. I go back inside, and shiver as my body adjusts to the warmth.

“Everything okay?” my mom asks, peering out into the hallway from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I say, as if that could be further from the truth. I can’t get my mind off Gina and Ricky for the rest of the game, and the frankly bizarre conversation we just had.

Later in the afternoon, I’ve retreated to my attic room for a bit of personal space, when my door opens very slightly, and I can see Heather through the crack. I pull out my earphones and give her a look, not wanting to yell at her. We have a truce, after all.

“I did knock,” she says apologetically.

“Guess I didn’t hear,” I say. “What is it?”

“Have you seen?” she asks. Her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“Seen _what_?” By now, I’m heartily sick of everyone being so fucking secretive. She crosses the room and stands by my bed.

“Can I sit?” she asks, and I nod dumbly, completely bewildered. She pulls out her cell phone and opens Instagram, then scrolls through her feed. No. Please, God, no. Without a word, she stops at a specific post, and passes me the phone. My worst fear is realised as I glance at the account that’s made the post – East High Confessions. I read the post three times, frozen in shock, unable to fully believe that it’s real.

 _Dear East High Students,_  
_I, Sebastian Matthew-Smith, hereby declare that I am gay. Yep, you read that right, a Verified, Fully-Fledged Homosexual. As a sort of pre-New Year Resolution, I have decided that I have to live my truth, and that is why I am telling you this now. Boyfriend applications are officially open, with invitations for BJs and anal buttsex very welcome. Thank you for your attention. That is all._

“Fuck,” I breathe, my voice shaking. He did it. He actually did it. The only mercy I can see is that there’s no mention of Churro, and he didn’t go as far as actually posting the screenshots of the emails. Funnily enough, though, it doesn’t make me feel much better. In this moment, I have never wanted to kill someone more than I do right now.

“Judging your reaction, I’m assuming you didn’t write it.”

“No, I did not fucking write it.”

“I’ve reported it,” Heather says. “They’ll take it down.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, and I’m surprised at the apathy in my voice. I sound almost hollow. “People will have already seen it. Look how many likes it has already.” She bites her lip, clearly not sure what to say. “It’s true, by the way,” I add, since it no longer matters. “I’m gay.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” she says quietly. “Seb, I’m so sorry.” I stand up and pace the room, running my hands through my hair. “Who would do something like this?”

“Someone stupid enough to not realise that the phrase ‘anal buttsex’ is completely redundant.” She almost smiles, then tucks her phone back into her pocket. “God,” I mutter, still walking back and forth across the room. Without speaking, she stands, walks up to me and hugs me. I sort of freeze – she hasn’t done that since I was about seven. I hug her back, burying my face into her hair and holding her tightly. Eventually she fidgets, and I let go.

“Love you,” she says quietly, and all I can do is nod. She closes the door on her way out, and I sink onto my bed, bury my face in my pillow and start to cry.

I guess I fell asleep at some point, because when I open my eyes, it’s dark out, and Caleb is standing next to my bed, clutching his favourite stuffed panda like a lifeline. My eyes are stinging as I fell asleep with my contact lenses in, so I pull them out and toss them in the trash. I’ll put in a new set tomorrow.

“Heather told me you were sad,” Caleb says in a small voice. “I brought you Bamboo.” He holds out the stuffed panda, and I smile.

“You keep him, buddy.” I pat the duvet and he climbs up, lying against my outstretched arm.

“Why were you crying?” he asks.

“Someone said something about me, and it wasn’t very nice,” I say. I’ll explain it to him at some point, but now is decisively not that moment.

“Why?”

I smile at his innocence. Why indeed. “Because he was mad at me,” I say, then add, “about something that wasn’t my fault.”

“If it wasn’t your fault, why is he mad?” he says. Staring up at the ceiling, I can’t see his face, but I can imagine it – scrunched up, trying to puzzle out this illogical conclusion.

“I don’t know, Skip,” I say, kissing the top of his head. “I guess he’s just not a very nice person.”

The rest of the day passes in a sort of haze. I have several missed calls and about a dozen texts. Some are from Gina and Ricky, some from people I only sort of know, but most of them are from Nini. One in particular that I notice reads, _You know I didn’t post that, right? I would never have told anyone. Love you. Call me when you want to._

My parents aren’t stupid, they know something’s up (as if my red eyes aren’t enough of a clue), but they don’t ask, which I actually appreciate. Heather keeps giving me sideways glances, and Caleb hardly leaves my side. As in, even less than usual.

I think I manage to piece together about two and a half hours of sleep overnight, which isn’t bad considering the circumstances. Christmas Day begins as it always does, with Caleb jumping on me at 6am, desperate to go downstairs and open presents. I groan as 42 pounds of excited five-year-old collapses on top of me, rousing me from a very peculiar dream, probably stress-induced. On the other hand, I was actually asleep at that point, which is mildly frustrating.

“Alright, alright, I’m awake,” I mumble. My mom and dad have to wake up early to tend to our animals, but once they’re done, they always make a point of going back to bed on Christmas morning, with a stern warning that we’re not to disturb them until 7:30. Caleb realised early on that they were serious about this warning, and figured out equally quickly that I had made no such threats. Hence, I’m now struggling to sit up and reaching for my glasses, Caleb’s knee pressing into my appendix hard enough to burst it.

We head downstairs, and Patrick and Tina are already there, pacing around the pile of gifts under the tree like a couple of hyenas stalking a gazelle. Unsurprisingly, Heather is not with them. Everyone knows better than to wake her up early.

“One present only,” I warn them. “We’ll open the rest later.” Unsurprisingly, they find the biggest ones with their names on, and I roll my eyes affectionately as I slump onto the couch to watch them tear eagerly into the brightly-coloured paper.

“Sebby, look!” Caleb says delightedly, crawling up onto the couch to show me his present. He’s the only person who calls me that, mostly because he’s the only one who can get away with it.

“Whatcha got there, Skip?” I ask.

“Bows and arrows,” he says, turning the box over and picking at the tape holding the flap shut.

“I got it,” I say, pulling off the tape and handing the box back to him. He pulls out the bow and examines it, then reaches in for the arrows, immediately fitting one to the string and lifting it up. “Nope.” I firmly pull the arrow away. God knows what my mom would say if we started shooting arrows in the house. “Once it’s light out, we can get dressed and go try it out, okay?”

“Oh,” he says, clearly disappointed. “But I already chose this one!” I know what he means: the reason they’re allowed one present when they wake up is to keep them occupied until our parents are up. Even though they’re only supposed to take one, on this occasion, I just don’t care. I glance at the twins, and they appear to be engrossed in Patrick’s new LEGO set.

“Okay, fine,” I say, lowering my voice. “You can choose one more – small – present, if you open it quietly in the kitchen.” He nods eagerly and jumps down from the couch. He’s surprisingly shrewd for a boy not yet six, as he surreptitiously takes one more parcel from the pile and sneaks it out of the room. Knowing there’ll be hell to pay if the twins realise what he’s doing, I get down onto the floor with them to distract them by helping them with the LEGOs. Honestly, aiding and abetting a kindergartener in Operation: Grand Theft Parcel is not how I planned to spend Christmas morning. Then again, until last night, neither was the other plan I have for this morning.

After breakfast, we congregate in the living room to open the remaining presents. I’m trying to keep things light and breezy, but by now even Tina’s noticed something’s up with me, so I decide to just get it over with.

“Hey, guys?” I say, my voice strained and a little shaky. Everyone stops to look at me except Caleb, who keeps rolling his new toy train around the carpet, making puffing noises through his teeth. “I… there’s something I need to tell you.”

My dad snaps his fingers. “You got someone pregnant. You’ve joined a cult. You’re gay. _You’re_ pregnant.”

I close my eyes and nod. “That’s it. I’m pregnant.”

“Knew it,” my dad says triumphantly, holding his hand up to my mom, who doesn’t high-five him.

“Seriously, though,” I say. “I’m gay.” Silence falls. Heather looks to our parents for their reaction, and Patrick and Tina look surprised.

My mom speaks first. “Seb, that’s… That’s so brave of you to tell us.”

“Jeez,” my dad says, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry, bud, I was kidding.”

“It’s alright,” I shrug.

“Which girl put you off?” my dad asks, apparently serious.

The question throws me, but Heather jumps in. “For God’s sake, Dad!”

“What?” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Sensing the commotion, Caleb finally looks up from his toy.

“Mom,” Patrick says quietly, as Heather hisses about inappropriate comments. “I don’t really get it.”

“Seb,” my mom says, “would you explain?”

I nod and look at Patrick. “It means I like boys. You know, instead of girls.” He thinks about it for a moment, then nods and smiles.

“So you have a boyfriend?” Tina asks. I chuckle.

“No.”

“Why?” Caleb chips in, and I shrug.

“What made you decide to tell us now?” my mom asks, as Heather gives our dad one final glare and falls silent. I say nothing for a moment, debating telling them about the Instagram post. I catch Heather’s eye she shakes her head minutely.

“No particular reason.” And just like that, conversation moves on. What a shitty moment. I thought it would feel like coming out to Nini, but it doesn’t. I don’t feel lighter, or whatever. I feel tired and miserable. I just want to crawl into bed and never talk to anyone again, but I can’t. Life has to continue. _I_ have to.

**_From:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 25 th, 10:09pm_

_Hey, Churro. So I had categorically the weirdest and most crappy Christmas Day ever, and the worst part is I can’t even tell you everything that happened. Let’s just say, as a result of certain circumstances entirely out of my control, I am now completely and irreparably out of the closet, to basically our entire school, plus my family. And frankly, it’s kind of shit. I’m also running on about two hours of sleep, which is fun, so I’m just exhausted and a little bit nauseated. By the way, I Googled it, and you’re right, the correct word is nauseated, not nauseous. Who’d have thought?_

_Also, by any chance, you haven’t looked at the East High Confessions page lately, have you? If you haven’t, please don’t. I can’t tell you why, I just need you to trust me._

_So now I guess it’s your turn to distract me, in any way you see fit. Updates on the baby, or funny Christmas anecdotes… I really don’t care. I know you told me you’re going to your dad’s in Silver Summit tomorrow, and I hope to God his house has Internet, because I really don’t think I can handle an entire week without hearing from you. Maybe if you gave me your number, we could text instead? I’m still cute over text, I think._

_Either way, merry Christmas, Churro, seriously. I hope it’s been freaking awesome._

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 26 th, 7:31am_

_Oh, Flounder. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but for what it’s worth, I’m thinking of you, and hoping things aren’t as bad as they seem right now. I decided to wait until this morning to write this, in case anything I wanted to say would have stopped you sleeping. I realise that sounds ominous; I didn’t mean it to be so!_

_No, I haven’t looked at it. I wasn’t following them even when I made the initial confession, and actually, I don’t think I’ve checked it since. I won’t look at it now – I do trust you._

_Oh gosh, amusing Christmas stories… Well, my mom bought me the collective works of Oscar Wilde. I think she was trying to be funny, but it’s a nice gift all the same. I’m not sure if that counts. Other than that, it was pretty normal: my grandparents came over after church, and they had dinner with us. There was one moment when my grandpa asked if I had a girlfriend yet. I have to admit I didn’t tell them that I’m gay (they’re not particularly progressive, shall we say), so I just told them no, I don’t have a girlfriend. I saw my mom biting her lip in an attempt not to laugh, though._

_I don’t have any new updates on the baby, but I probably will once I’m at my dad’s, so I’ll keep you posted. I will say, though, that thanks to you, every time I think about it I am forced to relive the idea of my dad and stepmom having sex, which is profoundly nauseating._

_Worry not, WiFi is bountiful at my dad’s place. As for texting… I don’t know. Part of me wants to, but if you were tempted to call me, either I’d be tempted to answer, or you’d hear my voice asking you to leave a message. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready for that yet. And I’m sorry again that I said no again to meeting in person. I just don’t want to lose what we have here. You get that, right?_

_I do think you’re cute, though. I think you’re ridiculously sweet. I spend half my time reading your emails and trying to transfer them onto the image I have of you in my head, for daydreams and such. I truly am looking forward to us meeting in person, whenever that happens._

_Love, Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 26 th, 8:24am_

_Daydreams AND SUCH? Please elaborate._

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_December 26 th, 8:30am_

_You know what? I’m going to leave it to your imagination. ;)_

_Love, Churro_


	10. Happy New Year?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year, and Seb makes a few resolutions.

You know there’s that period between Christmas and New Year where you sort of just eat chocolate, watch TV and lose all sense of what day it is and such? This year, it’s like that, but tenfold. So much so, in fact, that when Gina texts me asking if they’re still invited over to celebrate New Year, I’m actually surprised that it’s only a day away. I tell her to get here for seven – it’s just her and the other two this year. Often I invite the others from our lunch table too, but I don’t think I can cope with that many people in the same room at the moment.

Dealing with the swarm of texts and direct messages that I received after Extreme Jackass posted that confession has genuinely been one of the most stressful experiences of my entire life. I say ‘dealing with’ – the vast majority I either ignored, or simply blocked.

The responses pretty much fell into three distinct categories. The first – and honestly the ones I most appreciated – were people who know me well enough to know that the post sounded absolutely nothing like what I might write, and asked if it was actually me who posted it. Namely, the guys from my lunch table (although not all of them messaged me) and a few people from the show. I didn’t hear anything from Ashlyn or Carlos, but I wasn’t too surprised by either of those. Ashlyn doesn’t even have Instagram, and although Carlos does, as far as I know, he’s barely ever on it.

The second group were the people who sent encouraging messages in support of my coming out. That was okay, although I didn’t reply to any of them either. The third group were people who either said that they pretty much knew anyway, or were just straight-up abusive. These ones I blocked. I have to say, as strenuous an experience as it was, the digital detox was kind of refreshing. Maybe I should block homophobes more often. New Year’s resolution, perhaps?

Oh, and I also blocked and deleted EJ’s number, and terminated all our connections on social media. I think that pretty much goes without saying. That felt really good, although not as good as the numerous daydreams I had about designing various elaborate scenarios in which he died slowly and painfully.

Anyway, Ricky, Gina and Nini are due to arrive in about ten minutes, and I’m setting up my room, when my mom taps on the door and comes in.

“Hey,” I say, not really looking up from the box I’m trying in vain to shove under the bed.

“Hey, about tonight,” she says, with the slow rhythm of someone choosing their words carefully. “Where’s everyone sleeping?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, turning the box ninety degrees to see if that makes any difference. “Same as always - me and Ricky in here, Gina and Nini in the living room.”

She crosses the room and pushes it easily under with her foot. “Okay, that’s fine for tonight,” she says, “but your dad and I agree that from now on, we need to find a different sleeping arrangement for Ricky.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I groan, standing up, folding my arms and looking down at her. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just saying,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender. “It was different before, but now – ”

“No, stop,” I say. I don’t normally interrupt her, but this is absurd. As if me coming out suddenly means that Ricky and I can’t be in the same room without going at it like rabbits. “Just stop. We are so not having this conversation.” She doesn’t push it.

“There’s ice cream in the freezer you can have,” she says instead. “If any of you fancy it.”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little clipped. She places a hand on my arm for a moment, then smiles and exits the room.

I’m trying to be cheerful as the night goes on, but no matter how hard I try, there’s a certain atmosphere I can’t seem to shake. Almost as if there’s something that’s going unsaid. Nini’s telling a story about something that happened with one of her neighbours, and we’re all laughing at the funny parts. But there’s something hanging in the air that makes it seem as if none of us are finding it that funny. Ricky plucks out a melody I can’t place on my dad’s old guitar, and he and Nini seem to be sitting closer than usual. I think I’m a little hypersensitive. Everything’s just a little bit loud, and the lights are just a little too bright. Eventually, I decide to bite the bullet.

“I see they took down that Instagram post,” I say, easing my way into the conversation.

“We don’t have to talk about that,” Gina says quickly, and Ricky nods in solidarity.

“No, I want to.” My voice is surprisingly steady. “Obviously I didn’t write it.”

“Do you know who did?” Gina asks, and I shake my head. Right now, I think telling Gina about EJ would be about equal to signing his death warrant. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it, of course.

“It is true, though,” I add. “That I’m gay, anyway. Does anyone want ice cream?”

“Whoa, hold up,” Ricky says. “You’re gay?” I was getting up, but now I pause and sit back down again.

“Uh, yeah.”

He takes a moment to process this. “Huh.”

“Is that okay?” I say, my guard up, and Ricky and Gina both look at me like I’m insane.

“Of course it is,” Gina says. “Seb, did you seriously think we wouldn’t be okay with that?” I shrug, not sure what to say.

“You’re very quiet,” Ricky says, looking at Nini.

“Well, I, uh-” she says, and Gina turns on her.

“Did you know already?” Nini nods reluctantly, and Gina blinks twice in shock. I decide not to wait to see what happens next, and go to get ice cream.

I meet Heather in the kitchen, who’s apparently fetching snacks for her own friends, and I sort of tense up. Normally our Christmas truce lasts until the last day of board games, but we haven’t really fought about anything for over a week now, which is a little unnerving. That said, there have been several times this week where I couldn’t even find her anywhere in the house, which is a little odd. In the nicest possible way, she doesn’t go out all that much. If she meets up with her friends outside of school, they tend to come here, so it is unusual that I couldn’t find her.

All the same, I feel like she’s being extra nice to me because of everything that’s going on. In some ways, I appreciate it, because I’ve got enough on my plate without arguing with her three times a day. In other ways, I sort of want things to go back to normal.

“You okay?” she asks now.

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “Just came down for ice cream.” After a moment, I add, “I just told the others.”

“How’d they take it?”

“Pretty well, I think,” I nod, opening the freezer and pulling out a few different tubs of Ben & Jerry’s. “Hard to say, to be honest.” Another moment passes, and I ask, “Why have you been so nice to me this last week?”

She looks a little surprised. “I can stop, if you like,” she says drily, and I have to smile. “I thought it would be obvious.”

“That’s not quite what I meant,” I say, chuckling softly. “I mean, clearly we can go without fighting if we want to. Why don’t we normally?”

“Well, you start it too, sometimes,” she points out.

“Yeah, I know.”

“But honestly?” she says, leaning against the countertop and folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t really know.”

“Me neither,” I admit. “Want to extend the Christmas truce?”

“How long?”

“Permanently?”

She grimaces. “I don’t know about that.” We both smile, both a little uncomfortable with the emotional display.

“I guess we don’t have to make it official,” I say. “Maybe when we have issues with each other… we could just try and be adults about it.”

“Sure,” she nods. “With that in mind, that shirt is not your colour.”

“Noted,” I say, nodding back. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She laughs, and shakes her head.

“Enjoy your party,” she says at the door.

“You too.” And with that, she’s gone.

It’s thirty seconds to midnight. We’re already in pyjamas, the ice cream’s been eaten, we’re all a little bit hopped up on sugar, and we’re watching the broadcast leading up to Salt Lake City’s firework display. As the countdown nears zero, Gina wraps me in one of her rare hugs and whispers, “Happy New Year, Seb.” I squeeze her tightly.

“You too.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nini and Ricky hug, and she briefly kisses him on the cheek as they break apart. Interesting.

Nini starts nodding off less than a quarter of an hour later, nestled into the sole easy chair I keep in my room for reading. Ricky’s still playing the damn guitar. I’m vaguely tempted to cut the strings. Nini stirs when he plays a bum chord and grimaces at himself; she slumps out of the chair and practically crawls to her sleeping bag. As protest to the awful conversation I had with my mom earlier, we’re all sleeping in the same room. I may reap hell for it tomorrow, but I’m making my New Year’s resolution to care less about what people think. It’s an attitude I’m probably going to need when next week finally arrives.

Ricky settles down next to her about ten minutes later, leaving me and Gina, lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I murmur, and she turns her head to look at me.

She looks sad, but doesn’t seem angry. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t.”

“Are you mad that I told Nini first?”

“I don’t have a right to be mad,” she says.

“But you have a right to feel things,” I say, rolling onto my side.

“I guess,” she says quietly. “When did you tell her?”

“A few weeks ago.” She hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything, although I desperately want her to. “Gina?”

“Yeah?”

All the things I want to say flash through my mind. I want to tell her why I didn’t tell her first. Because I was scared, and because I didn’t want to lose her. Because it was so much harder to tell someone I’ve known for so much longer. How much I love her, and don’t want her to be mad at me. How I don’t want anything to change at all. But I don’t.

“I need to sleep.”

“Alright,” she barely whispers. “Good night.”

“Night.”

I pull out my contacts and put them in their little dish on my nightstand, and crawl under the duvet. Unsurprisingly, though, it’s at least another hour before I actually fall asleep.

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_December 31 st, 9:14pm_

_Hey Churro,_

_I’m typing this from my kitchen, as I’ve just come down to get ice cream for me and my friends. (It’s Ben and Jerry’s, too. I’d text you a picture to make you jealous, but I can’t, because you still don’t want to exchange numbers.)_

_I’m totally kidding, by the way. I know we talked about this a couple of weeks ago. Wow, that long? How time flies when you’re in emotional hell. Anyway, I know exactly why you don’t want to, and frankly, you were right. There is no way I would be able to resist calling you, to see if you answered, or even just to hear your voicemail message._

_I just wanted to send you a message to say that I miss you. Which is weird, because it’s plausible that we’ve never met before. Do you know what I mean, though? It’s difficult to explain. I miss walking through the hallways and wondering if we’ve made eye contact, and glancing around the cafeteria to see if I can work out who you are._

_I miss the sound of your voice and the feel of your hands. I know that’s even odder, because I don’t even know for certain that I’ve experienced either. I’m reading this back and realising that it comes across as a bit depressing, which wasn’t my intention. I just want you to know that I appreciate you._

_On a side note, I just officially came out to my best friends. I mean, they’d already heard thanks to the Mass Outing I told you about at Christmas, but now they’ve officially heard it from me. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this to you yet, but I spent three days after Christmas combing through messages from people – nice and not so much – responding to the Mass Outing. Honestly, Churro, I’m just so tired. And I can’t even go to bed for, like, another three hours._

_Anyway, I should probably sign off before this ice cream melts and my friends come looking for me. Happy New Year, Churro._

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_January 1 st, 10:58am_

_You have Ben and Jerry’s? I am indeed jealous. My mom’s lactose intolerant, so she doesn’t buy ice cream all that often, because it’s only me who eats it. I’ve told her that this is the opposite of a problem, but for some reason, my efforts always falls on deaf ears._

_I’m sorry again about the texting thing. I know I’ll reach a point where I’m ready – but I’m not quite there yet, I’m afraid. By the way, I completely understand everything you said you miss, because I miss them too. I miss_ you _too._

_By the way, since you clearly need cheering up, I thought it might amuse you to know that my cousin and her now-husband came to my dad’s for New Year last night. You know, Mr Sexual Awakening? Anyway, it was suitably awkward, but at least this time around, I didn’t just stand there and stare at him. It’s nice to know that I’ve developed some game in the last five years, but then again, I’d be more than a little concerned if I hadn’t._

_In other good(?) news, I came out to my dad and stepmom last night, too. They seemed a little surprised, but they were pretty cool about it. They asked a couple of questions, then we moved on and they showed me the new sonogram picture of little Gabriel (it’s going to be a boy)! We always seem to come out at the same times, don’t we? What an odd coincidence._

_Happy New Year, Flounder – I know everything sort of sucks right now, but I promise you things will get better._

_Love, Churro_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter's super short and kind of filler-y, but only because it was a scene that needed to happen, but I couldn't work out how to incorporate it into a different chapter without making it super long and getting rid of one set of emails. Hope you enjoyed it anyway - we're getting into some more juicy story from the next update!


	11. Righteous Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb returns to school after Christmas break, for a day that goes about as well as he expected it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Apologies in advance for what's about to happen)

I’m pretending to be calm and collected about going back to school, but honestly, I’ve been absolutely dreading it since the moment the confession was posted. When we get there, Heather and I just sit in the car for a few minutes. I don’t really want to get out.

“You don’t have to go in today.” I know she’s trying to be helpful.

“I can’t put it off forever,” I say gloomily.

“You know, people probably won’t even remember.”

“Yes they will,” I snap, and she scowls. For the first time in nearly two weeks, I feel a little more normal, but I immediately feel bad about it. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She places her hand on the door handle. “I hope it’s not as bad you think.”

“Thanks.” The door slams behind her, and I watch her leave. I tap out a quick email to Churro, a sinking feeling in my chest, and head out too.

As I pass through the hallways, I can’t shake the feeling that everyone’s watching me. I mean, it’s probably at least partly true. “Hey, Sebastian!” I turn in the direction of the call, to see a senior boy I’ve never spoken to. He’s beckoning me over, and he smirks as I approach; then one of his friends shoves me from behind, and he catches me. “How about a kiss?” he says, leaning in as I try to prise myself out of his grip. He holds me fast, and although I’m struggling, I can’t break free.

“HEY!” We all turn to see Nini marching furiously towards us. She’s at least four inches shorter than every one of the guys holding me, but in this moment, she looks so dangerous that they let me go and take an instinctive step away. “How dare you?” she demands. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It was just a joke,” says the one who asked me to kiss him.

“A joke?” Nini repeats, her eyes flaming. “Okay then, explain why it’s funny.” He suddenly starts stammering, apparently unable to come up with an answer. “That’s what I thought,” she says. “Now piss off.” She’s five-foot-six-inches of pure rage and badass. “You okay?” she asks, and I shrug. I’m not really, but I’m grateful to her. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have kissed me, but there’s no telling what they might have done instead.

It’s not all bad, though: even before I get to my locker, a few people stop me to tell me that they support me. It’s odd – these people have never spoken to me before, but they’re perfectly willing to either demonstrate solidarity, or else publicly humiliate me. It’s an interesting representation of humanity.

There’s a weird energy at the lunch table. Obviously everyone knows, as most of them messaged me about it, but they all seem to be on high alert, as if something could happen at any moment. At the same time, though, everyone seems to be louder than usual, as if to compensate for the peculiar atmosphere. It’s fine until Kourtney makes some joke about Ricky maybe being gay too, at which point he starts being extra friendly with Nini, at which point both Gina and I become even more annoyed. Perhaps this doesn’t go unmissed, because Nini, meaning well but very unhelpfully, says, “Maybe we need to find Gina a boyfriend instead!” Which is like, totally, the opposite of anything that might improve the mood.

“No thanks,” Gina says in a frighteningly cheerful voice, accompanied by a very obviously fake smile, before standing up and leaving.

“What did I say?” Nini murmurs, and Ricky shrugs. Big Red glances at Carlos, who glances at Gina’s empty seat, and bites his lip. Does Carlos like Gina now? Who knows what the hell’s going on?

“She probably didn’t mean it,” I say to him. “Ask her out if you’re interested.” I don’t say it to be unkind. I’m just kind of tired of all this damn hetero drama. He blinks at me and sort of shakes his head.

“No, I’m not…” he falters, but frankly, I don’t really care. I’m just ready for this stupid day to be over. Little do I know it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

Two other junior boys have just walked into the cafeteria, seemingly scoping it out, and now they’re making their way to the centre of the room. I don’t pay them any more attention, and look down at my lunch, until Kourtney taps my hand. “Sebastian,” she says quietly, and I turn round to follow her gaze. They’re now standing on one of the tables, blasting that stripper song from a Bluetooth speaker and holding up their signs: one reads _WHAT’S GOOD, SEBASTIAN?_ with a winking face drawn in Sharpie. The other reads _SO… TOP OR BOTTOM?_

I genuinely might throw up. They’ve started grinding on each other, and they’re nearly crying with laughter. I glance around the room to gauge people’s reactions: a few are laughing; more are trying not to. Some look disapproving, others downright furious. My gaze falls on the water polo team, where EJ is very pointedly not looking at what’s going on.

Suddenly Ricky stands up and marches towards the centre table. “Hey, fuckwits!” he shouts at the top of his voice, drowning out the music. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him genuinely angry before. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?” They’re still laughing, but they abruptly stop when Miss Jenn marches through the cafeteria doors, grabs the speaker and switches it off.

“Thank you, Mr Bowen, I’ll take it from here,” she says quietly to Ricky. He nods, but stays there, hands curled into fists and face contorted with rage. “Get down,” she says to the assholes on the table, her voice menacingly quiet. They sort of smirk, so she wordlessly puts the speaker on the ground and places her heel on it. “I said, get – down.” Suddenly alarmed, they step down from the tables.

“Give that back,” one says, pointing to the speaker.

“Nuh-uh,” she says, her lips paper-thin. I don’t think anyone’s seen her get this mad before either. “You are in no position to bargain here. How damn depraved to you have to be to pull this kind of stunt, attacking someone who has never done you any wrong in his life?” They sort of shrug, all bravado forgotten. “Say you’re sorry.”

“No,” says one of them in disgust. She presses her heel down, crushing the speaker under her foot. The entire cafeteria gasps and falls into astonished whispers.

“Quiet!” Miss Jenn snaps. Silence falls, and she turns back to the boys. “I said, say you’re sorry.”

They look reluctantly in my direction. “Sorry,” they mumble. They clearly don’t mean it, but honestly, I don’t give a shit either way.

“Get to Principal Gutierrez’s office. Immediately,” she says, pointing towards the doors. As they go, she picks up the remains of the speaker, looks at it in a satisfied way, and drops the pieces in the trash on her way out.

It’s weird – that was easily the most mortifying moment of my life. But all I can think about is the fact that if Churro is in the room, there is no way he won’t figure out who I am now.

When I arrive at the rehearsal, there’s a bunch of sheet music on the piano. I frown, as it’s not any of mine for the show, and I thought I was the only person who ever plays this thing. I shrug and leave it on the top, as there’s some good stuff in there – an eclectic mix: the Beatles, Queen, Michael Jackson, ABBA, Elton John, which I approve of. There’s some newer stuff as well – some Rihanna, Lady Gaga, Katy Perry. Whoever this belongs to, I’m impressed.

EJ doesn’t speak to me the whole way through rehearsal, which is totally okay with me, because I have absolutely nothing to say to him. As we’re packing up our things at the end, though, Miss Jenn walks over and leans against the piano.

“Hey, Sebastian,” she says gently. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.” I shrug. What else am I supposed to tell her? “Well, I’m sure you’re not, but I thought you should know that those assholes have been suspended.” I blink in surprise at hearing her curse. “I imagine what they did was humiliating, and I want you to know that I will never stand for that sort of behaviour.”

“Thanks.”

“Just… let me know if there’s anything I can do, yeah?” I nod, and smile gratefully. She pats my shoulder, then wanders off. Desperate to get out of school, I hurry away to find Nini.

“Want a ride home?” I ask when I spot her, but she shakes her head.

“I’m going to watch Ricky and the others skate, but thanks.”

“I’ll come too,” I shrug.

“You don’t have to,” she says. “Go home and relax. God knows you’ve earned it today.”

“Nah, I want to come and laugh at Ricky when he falls off.” She can’t help but smile at that.

“I guess that’s fair. Come on, then.”

When we arrive, Big Red spots us first, and waves at us, calling to Ricky and Carlos as he jogs over.

“Hey guys!” he grins, clapping me on the shoulder and fist-bumping Nini. Ricky rolls up and steps off his skateboard, stamping on one end to tip it into his hand. Carlos does much the same, smiling shyly at us both as Ricky recounts an apparently awesome trick he pulled a few minutes before we arrived.

“So guess what?” Ricky says excitedly, once he’s done with his story. He dips into his backpack and pulls out a flyer. “There’s a citywide competition to find the greatest trick skater!”

“Are you guys entering?” Nini says incredulously, taking the poster and scanning the information.

“Hell yeah!” Big Red says. “There’s a cash prize!”

“Five hundred dollars?” I say, reading over Nini’s shoulder. “For a few tricks?”

“It’s more than a few tricks, Seb,” Ricky says, affronted.

“So when are auditions?” I ask, and Big Red stifles a laugh.

“Auditions?” Carlos says quietly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiles.

“You know what I mean,” I say, blushing. “Tryouts. The competition. Whatever.” I’m only a little embarrassed – after today’s events, I’m pretty much maxed out. Honestly, I’m only blushing because Carlos is actually really cute when he smiles. How have I never noticed before?

“Two weeks from tomorrow,” Ricky says. “That’s for the initial audition,” he adds, doing air quotes around the final word, and I shove him.

“If we pass that, the real thing’s a week after,” Big Red continues.

“Well then,” Nini says briskly. “Better show us what you got.”

It’s fun, but I get bored a lot sooner than Nini, who I suspect is interested in more than the skating. Ricky offers to drive her home, so I say goodbye and wander to my car. As I get closer, I see a tall figure standing by my car, silhouetted by the floodlight behind the car. Immediately I’m on high alert, thanks to all the shit that’s gone down today. I reach into my pocket for the pepper spray that Heather loaned me this morning as a precaution. As I get closer, I recognise the figure – it’s EJ Caswell. Honestly, I think I’d prefer a hate crime right now. I’m kidding, obviously. I think.

I look daggers at him as I approach. He’s standing in front of the driver’s door; otherwise I’d just get in and drive away. “What do you want?”

“Seb, I – ”

“It’s Sebastian, to you,” I snap. I have no reason to play it safe around him anymore.

“Sebastian, then,” he says, and he looks so visibly distressed that I almost feel bad for him. Almost. “I just wanted to tell you that I fucked up.”

“Huh, what makes you say that?”

“I didn’t know people still did that kind of shit.”

“We live in Utah, shit-for-brains,” I say. “Hardly the Pride capital of the US.”

“I know,” he says desperately. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Honestly, I deleted those screenshots weeks ago, I was never going to post them.”

“Then what was the fucking point in any of this?” Suddenly I’m shouting, and I can feel every ounce of frustration, and hurt, and bewilderment from the last few weeks bubbling up simultaneously inside me. Blind fury overtakes me, and I lose it.

“…and I guess I was insecure,” he’s saying, “but listen – ”

“No, you listen,” I interrupt, stepping forward so aggressively that he recoils a little. “There is nothing I want to hear from you, because you just don’t get it – you couldn’t. Coming out is _personal_. I’m supposed to be the one who chooses who I tell, and when, and how. It was supposed to be _my_ decision. But you…” I take a deep breath, shaking with anger. “YOU took that from me. You took all of my choices and used them to manipulate me into fucking around with my friends’ lives. Then, when you didn’t get your way, you humiliated me.” There are tears in his eyes, but I’m on a roll, and I really couldn’t care less. “I want you to realise that every bad thing that happened to me today is completely and utterly your fault.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

I scrutinise his distraught expression for a moment, then say, more quietly, “Fuck you.” I take a deep breath, and then repeat, more strongly, “ _Fuck_ you.” I hate that my voice cracks with emotion. “Coming out was supposed to be my choice,” I say again, clenching my fists around my car keys and set my jaw. I will _not_ cry in front of him. “But you took that choice away from me, EJ, and I fucking hate you for it. Now get away from my car, or so help me God, I will beat the shit out of you.” He nods, tears streaming down his cheeks, and takes a few steps away. I drive straight out of the parking lot, but pull over less than a minute later, switch off the engine, bury my head in my hands on the steering wheel, and just sob.

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 6 th, 7:23pm_

_I’m so tired, Churro. I’m just so tired. Do you ever get so angry that you just start crying, and then feel peculiar and all spaced out? It’s a weird sensation. I feel weird._

_I don’t really know what else to say to you today, to be honest. I’m just so completely wiped._

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_January 6 th, 7:52pm_

_I’m really sorry to hear that you’re feeling so bad. I don’t think you’re weird, though – not in a bad way, at least. In any case, I doubt you need to feel weird about being angry, especially if I’m correct about what’s made you angry._

_I don’t really know what to say by way of comfort, either, I’m afraid. In fact, the main thing I want to say to you could be rather upsetting, but I think I need to say it._

_Flounder… I’m almost certain I know who you are._

_Love, Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 6 th, 8:28pm_

_Okay. Wow. I’m not upset, not by that, anyway. In fact, I’m not even very surprised. I think I may know who you are, too, actually. Let’s see._

  1. _You have brown eyes._
  2. _Your family aren’t originally from the United States._
  3. _You read_ A Tale of Two Cities _over Christmas break._
  4. _We once sang a duet from_ Dear Evan Hansen _._



_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_January 6 th, 8:40pm_

  1. _Yes._
  2. _That’s correct, actually._
  3. _Nope._
  4. _Definitely not._



_I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I’m who you think I am._

_Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 6 th, 9:03pm_

_Oh, wow. I was halfway there, but clearly I was dead wrong. I’m sorry, Churro – I hope this doesn’t make things weird? I don’t want things to change just because I have the observational skills of a scented candle._

_Besides, you could still be wrong – although I have a very nasty feeling that you’re not._

_Love, Flounder_

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  


**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  


_January 6 th, 9:07pm_

_Flounder the fish. Am I right?_

_Churro_


	12. Radio Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the cast prepares for the first performance of Beauty and the Beast, tensions are running high - on and offstage alike.

I’m an idiot. I’m such a total, colossal idiot. Brown hair and eyes and an instinctive feeling that Marshall might be Churro? Why the hell did I think that was enough evidence to know? I should have just told Churro that I didn’t know who he was and left it at that. Now he’s probably really hurt – evidenced by the fact that before my monumental fuck-up, he’d been signing his emails with “Love”, which he’s since dropped. It’s like a punch in the heart every time I read it – not that it’s been many times. It’s been four days, and what was half a dozen emails a day has become one a day at most. He’s obviously really upset, and honestly? He has every right to be. Also, clearly my Flounder-Sebastian link was less cryptic than I thought it was.

Since the initial nightmare that was Monday, though, being out has been kind of fun. On Tuesday Gina brought me a small button with a pride flag on it.

“You don’t have to wear it,” she said with a shrug, but I have been. I’ve put it on every sweater or coat I’ve worn since. My mom raised a quizzical eyebrow the first time she saw it, but if she objects, she hasn’t said anything.

Then, yesterday, Marshall dropped into conversation that he’s bisexual, and that if I was down for it, he’d really like to hang out sometime. I told him I’d think about it, which is ridiculous, because isn’t this what I’ve (literally) been dreaming about for the last four months, at least? Now though, I can’t bring myself to tell him ‘yes’, because I know now for absolute certain that he’s not Churro. He’s not the boy I’ve fallen in love with. The boy who’s barely talking to me.

In English this afternoon, Ricky, Nini, Carlos and Gina are leaning over their desks, talking about something when I arrive.

“Hey, Seb,” Nini says innocently. “I was just telling the guys about what happened in rehearsal yesterday.”

“A fascinating tale,” Ricky says with a grin. “Who exactly is this Marshall person?” I smile at their goofiness, but shake my head. I don’t know how to explain to them that on all levels except physical, I’m taken, by someone who seemed to like me a lot more before he found out who I am.

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 8 th, 6:50pm_

_Honestly, Churro, I completely get it. You shouldn’t have to suddenly reveal who you are just because I put two and two together to reach seven. I know I screwed up, but would you please just talk to me?_

_I know there was a reason we stayed anonymous. And I realise that’s going to be different for you now, but from my point of view, I still don’t know who you are. And isn’t that what you wanted anyway? I really miss your emails, and I really want to work this out._

_Love, Seb_

****

**_From:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
_January 9 th, 3:38pm_

 _That’s exactly the problem, though, things_ are _different now. It’s unbalanced. I can hear your voice in your emails, and imagine you writing them, but you can’t do the same, and that’s not fair on either of us._

_Especially since things are clearly working out for you anyway, in ways that don’t involve me. Well, good for you. I mean it, congratulations._

_Churro_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 9 th, 7:03pm_

_Working out for me?? I’m beyond confused right now. I can assure you that very little in my life is actually going right at the moment, so I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about._

_Please explain what you mean, so that I can explain what’s going on my end, and we can sort this out._

_Seb_

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 11 th, 1:26am_

_Okay, I wasn’t joking when I said I didn’t know what you were talking about. How on earth can everything be working out for me when you’re mad at me and I don’t get to talk to you? That was literally my worst-case scenario when all this shit started going down. I’m dead serious._

_I get that you don’t want to exchange numbers, or meet in person, or anything. And honestly, I would understand if your feelings have changed since you found out who I am, if you don’t find me attractive, or whatever. I freely admit that I’d be devastated, but I’d totally get it. Especially considering I’ve been rather an A-list celebrity at school this week, for all the wrong reasons. But even if things don’t work out like_ that _for us after this, you’ve sort of become my best friend over the last 129 days (not that I’ve sat down and calculated it)._

_But if you’re not interested, and don’t want us to talk anymore, I’d rather know that for certain than sit in this uncertain silence forever. I really miss you, and I miss how things were before things got messy. And I really, really don’t want to lose you. Can we really not pretend that this hasn’t happened, and go back to how things were before?_

_Seb_

When I arrive at school on Monday morning, there’s a plastic grocery bag hanging from my locker. I’m immediately suspicious, fully expecting to find a gay porno magazine or something from some hilarious practical joker. I look inside anyway, too curious to resist, and I’m mildly confused to find a t-shirt. I unfold it, and see it’s one from Elton John’s bestselling album, with the cover art emblazoned on it.

A piece of thick, golden-brown writing paper fell into the bag as I was unfolding the shirt, so I drape it over my arm and retrieve the note. It’s less than two lines written in a neat print, slanted only slightly to the right. The handwriting looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it. It reads, _I don’t think he’d begrudge you this, even if you haven’t seen him live._ I smile sadly at the memory, but I can’t help feeling a little annoyed – Churro’s not willing to answer my emails or tell me who he is, but this, he’ll do? He’s a puzzle.

Despite this, I sort of want to put the shirt on, but I don’t. Instead, I tuck it carefully into my backpack, at the very bottom, and pile my things back on top of it. It’s something I really don’t need to be answering awkward questions about right now.

All too soon, it’s Friday, and it’s the second dress rehearsal of _Beauty and the Beast_. We do one that’s just us, but then in the week before the show opens, classes stop for the afternoon so that the school can watch the show for free before our first evening performance. This then has the advantage of highlighting areas that don’t work so well with an actual audience, giving us the afternoon’s rehearsal, as well as two days next week, to adapt them.

“So how are you feeling about the show?” Ricky asks, stuffing fries into his mouth and grinning at me and Nini.

“Pretty good, actually,” Nini says, but the bad British accent is back and gives her away, making me, Gina and Ricky laugh. “I’m honestly fine. Ugh, I can’t stop,” she mutters. “Seb, you go.”

“I just can’t believe we’re performing for the first time today,” I say. “This last week has felt longer than Christmas break.”

Across the table, Carlos gives a single, barely audible laugh. I briefly wonder what his problem is, but then Gina chimes in. “I guess if time flies when you’re having fun, the opposite must be true when everything’s gone to shit.” I smile ruefully.

“You said it.”

“Well, I know you’ll be awesome,” Ricky says confidently, and Nini scrunches her nose sweetly at him.

“You guys are coming every night, right?” she teases, her voice back to normal.

“Oh, totally,” Ricky says grandly, even though I know for a fact he hasn’t even booked his tickets yet.

“I’m coming on Friday,” Gina says. “I can’t come on Saturday.”

“What about you guys?” Nini asks, addressing the rest of the table. Carlos sort of shrugs, but Big Red pipes up.

“We’ll go when Ricky goes.”

“And we’re coming on Friday with Gina,” Ashlyn adds.

“Thanks, guys,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s really good of you to come,” Nini adds. “I promise we’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’ll shout us out in your first Tony award speech?” Ricky asks, and Nini pulls a face.

“Not sure I’d go that far,” she says with a laugh. 

Once we’ve eaten, Nini and I head to the drama studio to get ready. Miss Jenn and Marshall have put up some tall drapes, splitting the room into two dressing rooms, for the boys and the girls respectively, with a hair and makeup zone in between. My costume is actually quite simple; it’s my hair and makeup that take longer. Since I’m playing Lumière, I have a white dress shirt and a golden suit and tie, and some awesome gold shoes, which I’m definitely stealing once the show’s over.

I then have to be painted gold on every patch of skin that’s visible (although fortunately Miss Jenn’s given me a pair of white gloves, so this doesn’t include my hands). Then my hair gets spiked and hairsprayed in all sorts of directions, and I have a headband with a large papier-mâché candle attached. I then have two similar candles on sticks that I have to carry all the time I’m onstage.

“Nini?” I call through the curtains.

“Yeah?” I hear her chirpy voice from the other side.

“Can you gold me?”

“Sure, I’ll be right there!” I find the paint – it’s quite a large palette, as we’ve got four shows to do, plus the two dress rehearsals. A minute or two later, Nini reappears, wearing Belle’s iconic blue dress, and tying an apron around her waist. She looks awesome, but she hasn’t plaited her hair yet, so I must admit that she looks a little bit odd. “Let’s do this,” she says brightly. “Ready?” I nod and sit down. “So,” she says suggestively, as she dips her sponge into the paint and dabs it to my forehead. I squeak indignantly – the paint’s cold. “What’s happening with Marshall?” I cringe internally; I’ve been waiting for this.

“Nothing much,” I say. “We’re friends.”

“Seriously?” she says, genuinely surprised. “I thought there was something there.”

“That wasn’t there before?” I ask, and she laughs.

“Something like that. Close your eyes.”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Maybe I’m just difficult. I liked him, but now he likes me back, and I don’t really like him in that way anymore.”

“What changed?”

I hesitate. “If I tell you – ”

“Seb. I’m obviously not going to tell anyone.” That’s fair. She didn’t tell anyone after I came out to her until New Year’s Eve. So I tell her.

I tell her about Churro’s confession back in September. About our emails. About how we came out to different people on the same day, and how I grew to like him more and more. How supportive he was when I told him about being outed, but how it helped him work out who I was. How I thought he was Marshall, and how he clearly thinks I wanted him to be someone else. How I haven’t heard from him now in nearly a week.

I don’t tell her about EJ and the blackmail, because I don’t need her to hate him when they have to go onstage together in an hour. That said, it might help her get into character. But no. Not yet, anyway. I also don’t tell her about the t-shirt, mostly because I’m not really sure what to say about it.

I finish the saga at about the same time that she finishes golding me up, and she sits down and squeezes my hand.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all of this,” she says quietly.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Thanks for being there, Neens.”

“I’d give you a hug,” she replies, “but you’re all golden.” I laugh and nod, and then she squints and tilts her head, scrutinising me. “Something’s missing,” she says thoughtfully, then reaches into her makeup bag and pulls out a pencil.

“What are you doing?” I ask, a tad suspicious.

“Just a little eyeliner,” she says, all innocence.

“Hm. Proceed.”

“Eyes.” I close them, and feel a _scratch_ _scratch_ on the lids. It’s a weird sensation. She does this every day? And to herself? This girl is an enigma. “Open.” I obey, and she looks impressed.

“ _T’es très beau_ ,” she says, and I grin. My French is by no means fluent, but I think I could recognise a complement to my appearance in any language.

“ _Merci_ ,” I say with a grin. “Now you need to sort your hair out, because right now you just look like Nini in a dress.”

“ _Charmant_ ,” she says, lightly thwacking me on the shoulder and glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “You’re right, though.”

We’re gathered in the hair and makeup zone, warming up our voices and sharing last-minute concerns and advice when Miss Jenn walks in, looking about as pissed as she did last week in the cafeteria. She slaps down the show poster that was on display in the front lobby and folds her arms. More than a little concerned, we peer at it over each other’s shoulders. Someone’s defaced it, replacing various cast names with vulgar alternatives. ‘Gaston’ has become ‘Gaylord’. ‘Cogsworth’ has become ‘Cocksworth’. You get the idea. My name is just surrounded by a bubble of cartoon dicks. Original.

“This is getting out of hand,” Miss Jenn says angrily. “Does anyone have any idea who did this?” We all look around at each other and shake our heads collectively. I steal a glance in EJ’s direction, and he’s looking horrified. At least the manipulative bastard is capable of remorse, it seems.

“Are you going to stop the show?” I blurt out, unable to stop myself.

“Do you want me to?” she asks, a lot more gently. All eyes are suddenly on me, and I shake my head. “Then that settles it,” she says firmly. “I will print a new copy of the poster, and will put it in a locked display case instead. This will stop, or so help me God, the culprits will not be graduating.” She snatches up the poster, turns on her heel and stalks back out again. She’s the best.

“Places, people,” Marshall says in his most authoritative voice. The room starts to clear out, but EJ comes over to me. it’s kind of hard to take him seriously when he’s dressed in a skintight breeches and a bright red and yellow tailcoat.

“Sebastian, I – ”

“Save it,” I say, but I’m not angry. I’m just tired. “I don’t care.” I leave him standing there, looking dejected, and go to check that my candlesticks are where they need to be for when I need them later on.

We gather in the wings, the thick red curtains still drawn together, listening intently to the chatter of students in the auditorium on the other side, which dies down as the familiar sound of Miss Jenn’s heels on the wooden boards of the stage rings through the room.

“Good afternoon, East High,” she says grandly.

A few morons echo back, “Good afternoon, Miss Jenn,” to general muffled laughter. She ignores them.

“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Miss Jenn.” Some moron wolf-whistles. “ I orchestrate the school’s theatre program, including overseeing the incredible production your classmates have put together, which we’re about to enjoy. However,” she says, placing a lot of emphasis on this final word, “I am less pleased to have to report the act of mindless vandalism which occurred earlier today.”

She pauses to allow the silence to become uncomfortable. It’s a surprisingly effective move.

“Someone – and you know full well who you are – defaced the poster which credits the remarkably talented cast who have dedicated their free time to putting this show together. Know this: we are watching you. Such acts of disrespect will _not_ be tolerated in this school, and if it happens again, the culprit’s personal record will be so damning that your future employers will read it and cry.” A nervous laugh goes around the room, but falters when they realise that she is in no way joking. “With that out of the way,” she says, her voice resuming its usual cheerfulness, “enjoy the show!”

A bemused applause accompanies her exit as she backs through the curtains, offers us a thumbs-up and blows us a kiss. “You got this!” she whispers as she steps into the wings alongside us. The band strikes up the opening notes of the overture, and we take our places for the opening scene of the Prince’s masquerade ball. Nini beams at me from the wings, and I offer her an anxious thumbs-up. I just about have time to reflect that Churro is somewhere in the audience before the curtains start to open, flooding the darkened stage with light.


	13. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their first performance, Seb, Nini and Ricky head out - by themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late! Normal scheduling will be resumed henceforth.

At the end of rehearsal after the dress rehearsal for the school, I’m the last one in the boys’ dressing room, wiping off as much of the gold paint off my face as I can. I’m sort of drained – I mean, we just did the show for the first time, really – but I have a weird, hyper energy as well.

I’m examining myself in the mirror – I’m still very slightly shiny, and I’m absently wondering if my face will ever truly be its normal colour again – when Ricky pops his head around the curtain.

“There you are,” he says with a grin. “The light of my life. My candle in the wind.”

“Give over,” I laugh, shaking my head at his mediocre puns, but stand up to give him a hug. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy it? Dude, it was awesome! _You_ were awesome,” he adds, as if I needed any proof that he’s the greatest friend.

“Is that Ricky?” Nini calls, and we both jump. I didn’t realise that she was still here. “Seb, are you decent?”

“No, I’ve actually stripped for him,” I say sarcastically, at which point she appears in the makeshift doorway and practically launches herself at him. He hugs her and spins her around.

“You were incredible. Absolutely incredible,” he says as he puts her down. “I cried.”

“That’s a lie,” I say, without looking away from the mirror.

“Yeah, okay,” he shrugs. “But I would have, if Big Red and Carlos hadn’t been there.”

“Okay, so,” Nini says, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet with excitement, “my moms let me use the car tonight, so what say we head out?” She looks at Ricky, whose eyes light up in understanding, so this is clearly something they’ve talked about.

“That sounds interesting,” I say cautiously. “What did you have in mind?”

“Wait and see,” she says mysteriously, and I shrug. What the hell. Slightly loopy as she is, she’d never suggest anything that’s actually dangerous, so I trust her.

“Great!” she says. “Let me get my backpack.”

“Wait, what about Gina?” Ricky and Nini look at each other.

“We didn’t ask her,” Nini admits.

“I didn’t really think this would be her thing,” Ricky adds.

“You don’t think we should at least ask?”

“No,” Ricky says firmly. “She’d only say no anyway.” This feels very, very wrong, but at the same time, I don’t want Nini and Ricky to change their minds about going. Also, I kind of see why they didn’t invite her. Lately whenever Ricky and Nini have been in the same room together, she’s been weird and snappish, and it’s kind of tiring. Maybe it is best if she doesn’t come.

“Okay,” I say, a lump in my throat. I’m really hoping this doesn’t backfire as badly as everything else has been lately.

We head out to Nini’s car, and Ricky takes shotgun without even calling it, like they’ve done this before. It might be two weeks into the new year, but the Christmas lights still haven’t been taken down, so I gaze happily at them as we drive west through the city centre, trying not to think about Gina, or Churro, or EJ, or anything that doesn’t involve what’s happening right here, right now. Whatever that may be.

“So where _are_ we going?” I ask.

“We’re almost there,” Nini says, steering easily into the next lane. It always surprises me how good she is at driving, and how relaxed she is. She’s so chaotic that I always imagine her road-raging at squirrels that cross the street, but honestly even Ricky gets more pissed at other drivers than she does. By the time she turns off the road into a parking lot, we’re fully in the outskirts of Salt Lake City. By now my curiosity is through the freaking roof, and as we get out of the car, I eye up the building we’ve stopped outside. There’s loud music playing inside, and bright, colourful lights shine through the windows. Strung across the wall and door, there’s yards and yards of bunting, with all the different pride flags.

“Is this a club?” I ask in disbelief. Nini’s not stupid, but there’s absolutely no way we look twenty-one: I’m barely five-foot-six, Ricky has no capability to grow a beard, and Nini is basically what Bambi would look like in human form. There’s no way any of us could possibly be twenty-one.

“No, dingus,” she tuts. “Don’t you trust me at all?”

“It’s a restaurant,” Ricky explains.

“Exactly,” Nini says with a nod. “We’re getting dinner.”

We head inside, and it’s actually almost exactly what I imagined. There’s a long bar at the back, with a couple dozen people spread out along its length. There’s a dartboard and a few pool tables in the corner, which I didn’t expect. There’s also no dance floor (thank God), but lots of tables. Obviously I can’t tell for certain, but there seems to be lots of gay couples having meals, together or in groups. It’s a weird feeling: I genuinely feel like I belong, but at the same time, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m very far out of my depth. And I still can’t get Gina out of my mind. Or Churro, for that matter.

We’re almost immediately greeted by a casually-dressed server, dressed in thigh-length black shorts and one of those t-shirts with a tuxedo printed on. “Table for three?” he asks pleasantly, and Nini nods, more confidently than I imagine she feels. Ricky’s looking around the room slightly warily. “Right this way.” We sit down and look at the menu, and Ricky immediately laughs loudly, before slapping a hand over his mouth. I quickly see why. There’s a whole section of the menu dedicated to phallic-shaped foods – hot dogs, pickles and the like. Honestly it is pretty funny, and I see Nini sucking on her lips to keep from laughing too. We decide to play it safe and order burgers, then I head to the restroom.

I’m weirdly overexcited. Like, as I stand in front of the sinks washing my hands (this place might be pretty sweet, but the men’s restrooms are still gross), I’m sort of bouncing from foot to foot to alleviate some of the pent-up energy. I can’t seem to stop.

I pass the bar on my way back to Nini and Ricky, and someone taps me on the shoulder. “Daniel?” I turn around to see a tall boy with blond hair looking down at me. As in, not like mine, but platinum blond. Under the fluorescent lights hung on the wall behind the bar, it’s sort of dazzling. He’s not bad-looking, though, and he frowns as he sees me. “Oh. You’re not Daniel.”

“Not usually,” I say, and he laughs. There’s no way he’s fully sober.

“You’re funny,” he says. “Can I get you a drink?” It’s at this point that I start to feel a little anxious, but I decide to ignore my instincts for once. God knows they’ve been wildly off-course for the last few weeks.

“Sure,” I say, nodding and smiling. My gaze meets Nini and Ricky’s a few tables away; they both look absolutely gobsmacked. I give them a thumbs-up to let them know I’m okay, then turn around and follow Taylor to the bar. He introduces me to his friends and hands me a shot glass filled with an electric-blue liquid.

“What’s your name, cutie?” he asks, as I subtly examine the liquid.

“Sebastian,” I say, and he grins.

“Like the lobster?” _Crab_ , I think, but just shrug and smile.

“I guess so.”

“I’m Taylor,” he says, and I think, _As in, Swift?_ He picks up his own drink and touches it against mine. “Bottoms up.”

I take a sip, and my eyebrows lift in mild surprise. It’s not awful. It sort of tastes like raspberries. Except it’s blue.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his smile mischievous, but not malicious. “Haven’t you ever taken shots before?” I shake my head, feeling a little foolish, but he shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll show you.” With that, he lifts his own to his mouth and tips the whole thing back into his mouth and swallows. His friends whoop, and one turns and says something to the bartender. “You want to try?” Instead of answering, I copy his motion and swallow the whole thing in one go, virtually slamming the glass down onto the bar. I’m trying very hard not to pull a face – it’s far less nice all at once.

“Shit, man, you’re a natural!” Taylor’s voice is impressed, and he slides me another one, which is red this time. “Are you in college?”

“I’m a junior,” I say. Not technically a lie.

“Cool, I’m a senior,” he says, and it suddenly hits me that this guy is at least five years older than me. That seems weird somehow. I brush the thought away, though, and pick up the little glass. “Are you here by yourself?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“My friends are over there,” I say, pointing to our table, and tip the shot back as he turns to look. “So tell us about yourself, Cute Sebastian.” So I do. I tell them that I came out recently, and about my secret email almost-boyfriend who’s been ignoring me for over a week. Taylor seems to be shifting closer and closer each time he passes me a drink, although my head’s fuzzy enough at this point that I’m not completely certain.

Eventually I feel his hand slip into my back pocket, and honestly? It doesn’t even bother me. Quite the opposite, in fact. The lights are getting brighter. The music’s getting louder. I think I’m enjoying the attention as much as the alcohol, so I tell them about EJ and the blackmail. As I’m telling it, I realise how freaking funny the whole situation is, and pretty soon we’re all laughing.

At some point the real Daniel reappears, and Taylor says, “Ah! Sebastian, look, here’s your lookalike.” I squint, but I can’t see it. I mean, our hair is roughly the same colour, and our clothes are a similar style, but that’s about as far as it goes. Eventually, I say something I immediately forget. Clearly it was a little suspicious, because Taylor gives me a funny look and asks, “Are you in high school?”

“I’m a junior.”

“In high school,” he repeats, and I nod.

“Yeah. I’m seventeen.”

Immediately his hand withdraws from its position on my ass. “Oh, god.” My heart sinks. I don’t know why, but whatever’s been going on, I was enjoying it. “Where are your friends?” I point vaguely, and he nods. “Goodbye, Cute Sebastian.” He smiles sadly and kisses my forehead. “Go be seventeen.”

I’m a little dejected as I wander back to the table, but my mood cheers as I see the others. I forgot how much I love them.

“What the hell just happened?” Ricky says. I grin and pick up my burger. It’s cold (damn, how long was I up there?) but I don’t really care.

“He was a college student,” I say proudly, the ‘s’ of student slurring a little and making it sound like ‘shtudent’. I try again “Student.” It’s actually a hard word to say.

“Oh my god,” Nini says, laughing nervously. “Seb, how many did you have?” I start counting on my fingers. I lose count three times before I even get to five. So I give up and shrug and go back to my burger. It’s quite nice cold.

“Good lord,” Ricky says, shooting Nini a wide-eyed look. She bites back a smile.

“Fancy a milkshake, Seb?” I look up eagerly – right now, I’ve never wanted anything more.

Ricky throws an arm around me as we head out. Which is good, because I think I might fall over.

“You’re taking shotgun, Seb,” Nini says firmly, rifling through the pocket of her hoodie for her car keys.

“No, boyfriends go in shotgun,” I say without thinking. “Ricky should.” Ricky coughs awkwardly, and Nini blushes. Wait. Are they not going out? Shit. I don’t know. Oh well.

“I don’t think Nini’s moms want you spewing all over their backseat,” Ricky says, filling the increasingly long silence.

“That’s right,” Nini says hastily, pulling open the passenger door and letting Ricky help me into the seat.

We drive along with the windows down, and I turn around to see Ricky shivering in the back. I laugh. He’s always been weak to the cold.

“Face front,” Nini says sharply. “If you throw up in this car, Seb, you’re fucking cleaning it.”

“I won’t,” I say, but I’m suddenly a lot less sure as I turn back around. I look out of the window and frown. “Wait, where are we going?”

“Jesus,” Nini mutters. “You two are staying at mine tonight, remember?”

“No, no, no, no,” I say, panic building in my chest. “I need my shirt.”

“You’re… wearing a shirt?” Ricky says, confused.

“Not this shirt,” I say, because it’s obvious. “A different shirt.”

“I’m sure I’ve got something I can lend you,” Nini says. I squint my eyes shut. They’re not getting it.

“A _special_ shirt. I don’t wear it. I just like to have it.”

“Because that’s not weird at all,” Ricky mutters from the back seat.

“Can you not go one night without it?” Nini says desperately. “We’re already on my road.”

“Please,” I say, drawing out the vowel for several seconds.

“Oh, screw it,” she says, pulling into a junction and spinning the car around.

“Seriously? Oh my gosh, you’re the best, Neens,” I say, bouncing up and down in my seat. I stop almost immediately as my stomach churns again. “Hey, maybe you can be my new sister.”

“What’s wrong with your other siblings?”

“Nothing, I guess,” I say gloomily. “But Heather’s never home, and the others, like, don’t know how to talk to me anymore.” I’ve never even admitted that to myself before. Whoops. “Everything’s changing,” I add.

“Well, you’re changing too,” Nini says gently.

“Am not.”

“Seb, you’re as pissed as a sailor, and just spent forty minutes getting hit on by a random guy,” she says with a light laugh. “Imagine telling You-From-September that this would be you in four months.”

“He was a random _college_ guy, actually,” I remind her as we turn onto the road that leads to our farm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I chirp as we pull up outside my house. “I’ll be, like, two minutes.”

I try to slip in quietly, as it’s kind of late, but my parents look up from the couch as I walk past the living room.

“What are you doing here?” my mom asks in surprise. “I thought you were staying at Nini’s tonight?”

“I am,” I say, trying my best to keep my voice steady. “I came to get a shirt.” I frown, because that wasn’t quite what I was going for. “I mean, I have a shirt, obviously. A different shirt.” No, that’s still not right. Why can’t I find the words I need?

“Sebastian,” my dad says slowly. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

“I’m gay,” I say, before breaking into giggles.

“Are you drunk?”

“Yeah,” I say. I glance at the TV, still laughing. “Are you watching _General Hospital_?” I say, unable to stop. “Is this what you do when I’m not here?” By now they look thoroughly alarmed.

“Sebastian, sit down,” my mom says quietly, pointing to the armchair by the door. I shake my head.

“No, I’m just here for a shirt. Then I’m going to Nini’s.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” my mom says. “I think you’re staying put tonight.”

“Did Nini drive? Did she drink too?” my dad asks.

“God, Dad, no!”

“Shall I..?” my mom asks, standing up and pointing to the door, and my dad nods.

“Wait, where’s she going?”

“To send Nini home,” my dad says.

“Why? Don’t you guys trust me?” I’m annoyed now, which isn’t helped by the derisive bark of a laugh he lets out.

“Seb, you just arrived home at nine-thirty, obviously wasted and rambling about a shirt,” he says, standing up and folding his arms across his chest. “So no, I don’t think we can trust you.”

“So really,” I say, not completely sure where I’m going with this, “the problem is that I told you the truth.” He shoots me a warning look, but I press on. “Actually, Dad, me telling the truth is really quite inconvenient for you, isn’t it?”

“Careful,” he says. He looks angry now, but for some reason it only makes me braver, and I let out a nervous giggle with my next words.

“Guess it sucks that you can’t make jokes about gay people anymore, hey, Dad?”

“ _Sebastian_.” His voice is hard and cold. I can’t help laughing again.

“Bet it was kind of shitty to realise you’ve been making gay jokes in front of your gay kid for seventeen years.” He doesn’t reply to that, he just stares at me. For one horrible moment I wonder if he’s going to hit me, but of course he doesn’t. He never has.

Suddenly I hear the front door close again, and my mom leans against the doorframe.

“They’ve gone.” My dad rubs his forehead, and she turns to me. “Sebastian, go and get a glass of water, and wait for us in the kitchen.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Go.” I make a big deal out of rolling my eyes and groaning, but honestly my mouth is about as dry as the bottom of our chicken coops, so the water thing is actually a really good idea. I fill up a glass and down it right there by the sink, then refill it and take it to the table. I drink it slowly, reflecting on the evening, and check my Flounder email out of habit. Obviously there’s nothing.

I finish my water, bury my head in the crook of my elbow and lean against the table until I hear chairs scraping across from me. “Did you get water?” I hear my mom ask, and I tilt my head in the direction of the glass without looking up. “Good.”

“Seb, it’s time to talk consequences.” So we’re back to _Seb_. Interesting. Either they’re about to go easy on me, or they’re softening the blow. I lift up my head, suddenly wanting nothing more than to just go to bed.

“You’re grounded,” my mom says, quietly but firmly. “Two weeks. No negotiations.”

“You can’t,” I say, starting to panic again. “It’s the show next week.”

“You can still do that,” my mom nods. “And the rehearsals. But you come straight home afterwards, understand?”

“And while we’re at it, we’ll have your phone and laptop, too,” my dad adds. I can see there’s no point arguing, and frankly, I’m far too tired to even try.

“That’s fucked up,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket and shoving it stubbornly across the table. They don’t like it when Heather and I curse, but right now? I really don’t give a shit.

Thankfully, they don’t revoke my access to the car, so I’m still able to drive myself to school on Monday morning. Nini and Ricky find me almost as soon as I enter the building, and Nini gives me a massive hug.

“Seb, thank god,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” I ask incredulously. “I’m the one who got almost too pissed to stand up and then called out my parents for bombarding me with casual homophobia for nearly two decades.”

“Damn, Drunk Seb is a badass,” Ricky says admiringly.

“I hope my mom didn’t give you too much of a hard time?”

“She did give us quite a scare,” Nini says with a grimace. “She was nicer once she was sure I wasn’t drunk, though.” I notice for the first time that they’re holding hands, and raise an eyebrow.

“Clearly I wasn’t missed, anyway,” I smirk.

“Not especially,” Ricky says, and Nini shoves him with her shoulder and leans into him happily.

I can’t find Gina, though, which isn’t too odd, because she’s not in any of my morning classes. But then at lunch, there’s a large cake on the table, because it was Carlos’ birthday over the weekend, but Gina’s not here.

“Hey, Ashlyn?” I ask across the table. She gives me a look which I can’t quite decipher. “Where’s Gina?”

“She’s not here,” Kourtney says stonily. Thanks, Kourtney. I hadn’t worked that out. I swipe a piece of cake and run away. I have to find her and sort this out.

All the same, I don’t find her until the end of the day, when I see her pass by the auditorium. Thankfully I’m not onstage, so I dash out after her. “Gina!” She doesn’t turn around, so I call her again. “Gina!” She spins around, her eyes blazing. “I haven’t seen you all day, where have you been?”

“Piss off,” she says. “I don’t want to talk to you.” Her voice is unnaturally high and quiet. I blink in surprise.

“What’s going on?” I ask cautiously. I’m pretty sure I know, but I want to be sure.

“Did you have fun on Friday?” she asks spitefully, and I close my eyes. I thought so.

“Gina, I know we fucked up,” I say, desperate not to lose anyone else in my life.

“Ha!” she practically spits. “You know what, next time, at least send me some pictures when you go out without me, yeah? Then I can pretend that we’re still friends.” I don’t get another word in. All I can hear for the rest of the day is the muffled sob she tries to suppress as she turns around and walks away.


	14. A Desperate Plea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Show week dawns, Beauty and the Beast opens, and Seb has an epiphany.

By the time I get home, I’m utterly exhausted. All I want is to go up to my room, put on my playlist of miserable songs, and wallow in the fact that I’ve now lost two of the greatest people in my life. And my freedom. But I can’t, because I’ve also lost my phone, which is just great. My dad comes in the back door as I come in through the front; I stand on the doormat, staring down the hall into the kitchen where he’s stood. We haven’t really spoken since Friday. I sort of spent the weekend walking between my bed, the refrigerator and the piano, not really talking to anyone. Except Caleb, who came up to my room a few times to see if I would play with him.

“Hey,” he says, raising a hand. “Can you, uh, come in here for a moment?”

“Sure,” I say. At this point there isn’t much more he can take away from me, so I don’t see a lot of point in protesting. He gestures to the kitchen table, and I’m surprised to see my mom there too, nursing a mug of tea. I sit obediently, and have a weird flashback to Friday night, which is oddly fuzzy. “I’m assuming this is the ‘don’t get drunk’ talk?”

“That,” my mom says. “Among other things.” She glances at my dad, who seems to be carefully considering his words.

“You were right,” he says finally, leaning against the piano. “About the gay jokes thing.”

“I shouldn’t have said it,” I say. “Sorry.”

“No, you should have,” he says firmly. “There’s a lot of stuff you _shouldn’t_ have done on Friday, but you were right about that.” I don’t really know what to say, so he keeps going. “I can’t imagine… how much harder it must have been, coming out to us when I’ve used it as a punchline for your entire life.” He sits down and looks at me. “I need you to know that you’re not a punchline, Seb. You’re really, really brave. And I need you to know that I’m… I’m sorry.” I’m a little stunned. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“Heather told us what happened in the cafeteria last week,” my mom chimes in, and I close my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“There’s a lot I don’t tell you,” I say quietly.

“But you know that you can, right?”

“Actually, I don’t feel like I can.” The first shred of honesty in quite a while. “You guys don’t make it easy to tell you stuff, because you make a big deal out of everything that happens. Every story from school has to be all exaggerated and dramatic, and if anything bad happens it’s like the Hulk when he gets angry. It’s just…” I try to speak eloquently, but can’t. “…it’s just so much.”

“Ah,” my dad says, smiling at my mom. “So you’re telling us we’re really weird.”

I crack a smile too. “Yeah, basically.”

“We’re sorry for that,” my mom chuckles, “but the thing is, we’re actually interested. I think we’re probably worse with you, because you’re the oldest. Everything new that happens to you is probably happening for the first time for us, too, you know? Like, the first time you spoke, it was the first time we’d heard our child speak.”

“Or like the first time you pooped on your own,” my dad puts in.

I wrinkle my nose. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You get what we mean though, right?” my mom says, steering us back on track, and I nod.

“I guess so.”

“You remember your first show?” she says with a smile.

“How could I forget?” I say gloomily. “I tripped on my shoelaces and cried onstage.”

“But you got back up,” she reminds me. “You wiped your eyes and said your line. Proudest moment of my life,” she finishes. “Seriously.”

“Because that was our boy,” my dad adds.

“Didn’t turn out to be much of a boy,” I say, half-joking.

“What the hell did you just say?” my dad demands, but I can tell he’s not really angry. “You’re the greatest boy there’s ever been.”

“Patrick and Skip excluded?” I say, and he tilts his head, pretending to consider it.

“Nah, I still reckon you’re our favourite son.”

“Chris!” my mom tuts, slapping him lightly on the chest. He grins at me. “So here’s my proposal,” my mom says, steepling her fingers and resting her hands on the table. It’s so business-like that I want to laugh. “You agree to be more honest with us about stuff, and we’ll promise to be less intense about it all.”

“Sound good?” my dad asks, and I nod.

“I can get on board with that.”

“That’s settled then,” he says, leaning back in a satisfied manner. “Well, that was easier than negotiating the price of animal feed.”

“Indeed,” my mom says, reaching into her pocket. She slides something across the table, and I catch it. I open my hands to see my phone, and look at them in surprise. “After the final show on Friday night only, you’re ungrounded, illicit underage drinking excepted. And you can have your laptop back after the show, if you remember all your lines.”

“Okay, well, I obviously will,” I say. “And even if I don’t, you don’t have a copy of the script. How would you know?”

“Good point,” my dad says. “I suppose you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you?”

It’s opening night, and I’m sort of shitting myself a little bit. The last two rehearsals – Gina drama aside – went really well, and we’re definitely ready. But I can’t help feeling like there’s a lot riding on it. At the end of the day, we head to the auditorium and just hang out for a while. According to Miss Jenn, we have to savour this time – a liminal moment, she calls it – as these are the moments that truly bring a cast together. We sit down together, and everyone’s brought some kind of snack food, and we talk about the show. About our classes, and teachers we hate. About what show Miss Jenn will pick for next year. All sorts of stuff. No rolling chair races though – I don’t think we could get away with that when we’re not on vacation.

Nini seems a little distracted. I’d say she was nervous, but her voice is her usual Californian twang, so perhaps not. “Hey, Nini?” I say once we’re in the dressing rooms. “Can you make me shiny again?” I hold up the large tub of gold paint for emphasis. She nods silently and sits me down. “So, you and Ricky, huh?” I say, wiggling my eyebrows. She doesn’t respond at all, which is unnerving.

“Hold still,” she says quietly, “and shut your eyes, please.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. She pauses for another few seconds before speaking.

“I talked with EJ,” she says, “and he told me everything. The emails, the blackmail, the Instagram post… all of it.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure where this is going.

“Two things,” she continues. “First, I’d have preferred to hear it from you.” That’s fair. I probably should have just told her when he posted the confession on Instagram, but I guess it’s too late for hindsight. “Second… I’m a little uncomfortable about having been used as… as a ransom reward. I’m not currency, Seb. And I know, you were being blackmailed,” she says hastily. “Honestly, Seb, I do understand that. What EJ did was awful, truly awful, and I told him that. But if I’m being truthful, I’m a little hurt that you knew what he was like and went along with his scheme to set me up with him. That’s all.”

I sit there in silence for a moment or two. Like, wow. With all the shit that’s happened in the last month – the outing, the humiliation, the confrontation with EJ, being grounded, Gina being mad at me – it never once occurred to me to feel bad about Nini’s part in all this.

“I… I’m sorry,” I say, a little lamely.

“It’s alright,” she says.

“It’s not,” I say, and she shrugs.

“Okay, maybe not,” she concedes. “But I’m not mad at you, not really. I just wanted you to know how I feel.”

“I am sorry, though.”

She nods. “And I’m sorry you had to go through it.” She pulls out her eyeliner pencil, and I obligingly close my eyes again.

“Are we cool?” I ask tentatively, as the pencil scratches gently across my eyelids. She boops me on the nose and smiles as I open my eyes.

“Yeah, we’re cool.”

For an opening night, it goes really well. Nini is the perfect blend of sweet and stubborn as Belle. EJ is irritatingly good at being pompous as Gaston. Although it could be argued that he doesn’t have to act much to be that big a dickhead. Louie (who plays Cogsworth) and I are hilarious, though I say so myself. I don’t miss a single cue the whole night; in fact, there’s only one minor disaster, and thankfully, it has nothing to do with me. After the interval, the curtain crank mechanism jams, delaying the start by nearly ten minutes while the frantic stage crew tries to pin them back manually.

Otherwise, though, it’s a resounding success. At the end, my family presents me with a massive bouquet of flowers – yellow and white roses, for Lumière. It’s a sweet gesture, and my dad surreptitiously hands me a picture of my laptop, and winks.

Wednesday night, admittedly, doesn’t go quite as well. I think we were all expecting this: riding on the high of an awesome opening night, the cast (some of us anyway, _Louie_ ) coast a little, and certain things fall a little flat as a result. Fortunately, though, there’s no one there tonight that I care about seeing it. My family always come to the first and last show, Ricky came last night too, and he’s coming again tomorrow with Big Red and Carlos, which is also when Gina said she’d come. Although admittedly, that was before it all went down the toilet. I hope she comes – but I have to say, my hopes aren’t exactly high.

Thursday night we’re back on form, and I’m relieved, because our friends (including Nini’s boyfriend – a truly _wild_ concept) are out there. I hope Gina’s out there, but I have no way of knowing. She’s stopped answering my texts, and all my calls just go to voicemail. I hope she listens to the messages I’ve left for her. After the show, Ricky and the others come to see us to congratulate us, which is nice. Big Red invites us over for an after-show party, which goes to show that he knows nothing about theatre, as cast parties never happen before the last show. Duh. Also I might have my technology back, but I’m still grounded, at least until Friday evening. I’m sort of living for the show and that night, to be honest.

On Friday morning, I’m sat at the kitchen table, making my way through a large bowl of cereal and thinking about Churro, when I have an epiphany and it stuns me so severely that I actually stop eating to run upstairs and get my phone. It’s not instinct. It’s not wishful thinking. It’s pure, indisputable fact.

Every single email that Churro and I have ever exchanged is marked with the time it was sent, and the final, awful email he sent me confirms my theory all by itself. As I look back through the five-month-long message thread, this conclusion becomes more and more plausible. At least a third of the emails that he’s sent me were sent while I was in rehearsal, when we barely have time to even check our phones, let alone type deep, meaningful emails. Meaning it was never, ever possible for him to have been Marshall. Or anyone involved in the show (including EJ, who in my fading sanity I was vaguely starting to consider, before shutting that door very quickly).

I scroll back to the very first email he ever sent me, read it through and smile. For the rest of the day, I spend every free moment reading through our emails. Learning about him all over again, as though it’s for the first time. Learning his quirks, his habits, his likes, his peeves, his family, his feelings – everything. This boy, who’s sweet, and compassionate, but hurts easily, and loves fiercely. Who’s rational, and private, and careful, but so surprisingly flirtatious and funny. Not Marshall. Not anyone, really. Just Churro.

I read the last few emails we exchanged. My heart breaks, and I realise what’s happened. I’ve fallen in love with him all over again.

**_From:_** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com_  
**_To:_** _churro119@gmail.com_  
_January 24_ th, 4:17pm

_Churro – I freely admit that I don’t know who you are. I have absolutely no clue. I don’t know your name, I don’t know who your friends are, I don’t know what you look like, or how your voice sounds._

_But I’ve realised that none of that matters. What matters is that I know_ you. _In fact, I think I know you better than anyone else in my life, the big and the small. I know that you feel lonely, even when you’re surrounded by people. I know that you think sheep are cute but that cows freak you out. I know that you have difficulty opening up to people. I know that you can’t eat marshmallows because of PTSD from a carnival ride. I know you think that I wanted you to be someone else, but the truth is that I’ve only ever wanted you to be you, and that I love you so much for it._

_I’ve spent far too long being too busy wallowing in the shit that life has handed me for the last few weeks, when I should have sent this message long ago. I hope you don’t hate me. And I never said thank you for the t-shirt, by the way – it was perfect, obviously. As if anything you do could be anything but._

_Tonight’s the last night of_ Beauty and the Beast _, and you may or may not know that there’s a pretty awesome carnival behind the mall which the cast are hitting up after the show. I’ll be there from nine until ten-thirty, and I’m desperately hoping to see you there too, because I want to make things right between us. Properly, this time._

_Love, Seb_


	15. Churro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wracked with nerves, Seb heads to the carnival, hoping to meet Churro for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go people!

I’m seriously jittery. For, like, the whole two and a half hours between school finishing and the final show starting. I can’t seem to find anything to do. I hang around with Nini until she says she has to start getting ready, although I think she wants a break from my weird manic energy. I’m not even a little bit offended. Honestly, _I_ want a break from it. Once she’s disappeared, I sort of bounce from group to group among the drama kids, steering clear of Marshall and EJ, for obvious reason.

I’m trying not to imagine what will happen if Churro shows up, because I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I can’t help it. Will I recognise him? Will we talk? Or will we just go straight to kissing? Will he come just to tell me that it’s over? Will he come at all?

I even call Ricky, just for something to do. He’s not coming to the show tonight (I think he would have, but he said he couldn’t afford to come three times, which is fair), but he tells me that he and Nini are going to the carnival after the show. I tell him I’ll see him there, and he tells me he loves me. Sappy bastard. I’m like, yeah, okay, and I sort of roll my eyes, but it’s actually kind of nice, so I tell him I love him too. I think Nini’s been rubbing off on us both.

It’s the best night of the show by far, and the audience is buzzing, which really helps us. One thing I’ve noticed is that a cast tends to feed off the energy the audience gives back, so if they’re not really into it, the show genuinely isn’t as good. But tonight they love us, and they cheer after almost every scene and song. As we finish ‘Be Our Guest’, they actually give us a standing ovation, which normally only happens at the bows. It’s kind of the best feeling in the world.

Before I left the house today, on a whim, I grabbed the t-shirt Churro left me and put it in my backpack. It’s been under my pillow since I got it, and as embarrassed as I am to admit it, I’ve been going to sleep with one finger twisted around the hem. I don’t know. I guess it’s been a comfort.

The second act of the show goes by weirdly quickly. It seems like I barely have time to draw breath before we’re bowing. Then, it’s the final night, so as the lead, Nini steps forward and starts the long, emotional process of thanking people – the tech and backstage crews, the front-of-house team and the band are first, then she calls Miss Jenn and Marshall onto the stage, where we present them with a big bouquet of flowers each. They’re good sports, and pretend they’re surprised, even though we’ve done this all before.

But even that seems to pass like a flash. Before I know it, I’m standing shirtless in the boys’ dressing room, staring down the Elton John shirt, wondering if I dare wear it. My dad’s words flash though my mind. _I need you to know you’re not a punchline. You’re really, really brave._

Maybe I am.

I exhale deeply and put it on. It’s soft, and cool, and a perfect fit (because Churro bought it, so of course it is). All the same, I frown, because there’s something cutting into my shoulder-blades. It feels like a tag, but it’s far too big. Confused, I reach up into the back of the shirt, and there’s a piece of card taped to the inside. As I tug it out, I see it’s the same golden-brown colour as the note Churro had left in the bag when I first found it.

_P.S. I love the way you light up a room when you smile. I love the way you close your eyes when you play the piano, like you’re lost in the music. I love your infectious laugh, and the two little moles by your lips, and your beautiful blue-grey eyes. If you think I don’t find you attractive, Seb, you’re crazy._

At the bottom of the note, Churro’s written his phone number. I freeze when I see it. Oh my god. He left me this shirt over a week ago, and I only sent him an email for the first time this afternoon. He has no way of knowing that I didn’t find the note until just now. What if he’s spent the last week thinking I’ve given up on him? What if he’s changed his mind about me since then?

I sort of want to call him, but I decide against it. I’m going to the carnival first. If he doesn’t show, I’ll call him, and hope he still wants to talk to me. God, I hope I haven’t screwed this up simply by choosing not to try the shirt on.

Folding the note and sliding it into my pocket, I pull a zip-up hoodie over the t-shirt, but leave it undone. I drive to the carnival alone, and in silence. Possibly for the first time in my life, I’m not playing any music in the car. It’s eerie, but I feel like I’m distracted enough without it. Once I’m parked, I walk in the direction of the loud music coming from behind the mall. I see several people from the cast, who wave at me. We’re probably all here, as we sort of go there instead of having a cast party. It’s usually pretty fun, but tonight, there’s only one person I want to see here.

I spot Nini and Ricky at a cotton candy stall, and they wave me over. Nini glances at my outfit and looks at me with a glint in her eye. She misses absolutely nothing.

“Is that the shirt?” she asks.

“Hm?” I say, feigning ignorance for the sake of my dignity.

“The shirt that Seb Matthew-Shit-Faced made me drive back for,” she says with a grin. “The one that got you grounded.” I nod, a smile creeping across my face, dignity shredded. I can’t help it. “Oh my god, you’re meeting him, aren’t you?” she asks.

“What? Who?” Ricky asks. “What’s this new thing where you tell her shit but not me?” She pokes him in the side, making him squeak indignantly.

“I’ll explain another time,” I say, plunging my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie.

“I hope you find him,” Nini says, smiling gently and booping me on the nose.

“Thanks, guys. I’ll, uh, catch up with you later?”

“Depends how much later,” Ricky says with a straight face, and Nini looks scandalised.

“ _Ricky!_ ”

“You guys are going to be a disgusting couple, aren’t you?” I say, wrinkling my nose with a grin. They share a look and nod simultaneously.

“Basically, yeah.”

I laugh and leave them to it, my eyes scanning the crowds for Churro. I realise that this is completely irrational, because I don’t know who I’m looking for, but I don’t know. I just feel like I’d recognise him if I saw him.

I wander from ride to ride, getting more and more nervous. The Ferris wheel, the ghost train, the teacup ride, and all those stupid little games which are most definitely rigged. I avoid the Rotor, though – remembering Churro’s traumatic story of marshmallows and the Rotor, I figure he’s unlikely to be there. I’m starting to run out of carnival attractions, though, and it’s just gone ten. I have less than half an hour left before I have to go home, and I still haven’t found him. Or he hasn’t found me. Or he’s not here at all. At one point, I see Ricky and Nini sixty feet away, in line for another ride, and they look hopefully at me. I sort of shrug.

I’ve been on the Ferris wheel twice now, and it’s a lot less fun the second time around. As I get off, I realise with a heavy heart that he’s not coming. He probably never was. Having finally accepted this, I think, _fuck it_ , and head for the Rotor. By this point there’s only, like, two other people in line, so I pretty much just go straight in, and lean against the wall and stare into space. I don’t know why I thought he’d come.

Suddenly I become aware there’s someone approaching me. I glance to my left and see Carlos Rodriguez, of the cute hands, quiet wit and pretty smile.

“Hey,” I say. I don’t mind that he’s here, although I sort of just want to be alone by this point.

“Can I join you?” he asks.

“I guess, if you want to,” I say. “I’m sort of waiting for someone, though.”

Carlos smiles, the same amused grin as the time I called their skating tryout an ‘audition’. “Yeah, I know.” I’m trying to work out what on earth that means, when he says, “I like your shirt.”

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s Elton John.”

His eyes crinkle in the corners as his smile widens, and he looks me straight in the eyes. “Seb – I _know_.”

Suddenly it hits me. _Oh._ Oh, I’m stupid. I’m so unbelievably stupid.

I open my mouth to speak, but of course it’s at that moment that the ride starts up, and we start to turn. I notice him hastily take off his glasses and tuck them into the pocket of his pants. As we pick up speed, I can’t even turn my head to look at him, as much as I want to. Presently I feel the floor start to drop away, and we’re just hanging, stuck to the wall by sheer physical force. It’s sort of unsettling; I get why Churro doesn’t like it. Or, as I now realise, why _Carlos_ doesn’t like it.

After what feels like an eternity, I feel the floor under my sneakers again, and the ride begins to slow down. Once we’ve stopped moving, I stand there for a moment until the dizziness subsides, but Carlos dashes straight out. I follow after a few seconds; thankfully I’m not too giddy. He’s leaning against a post, a hand pressed to his stomach.

“You okay?” I ask, and he nods.

“Yeah, I’m good.” We’re silent for a moment. I don’t know about him, but I’m just adjusting to the idea that it’s him. “Will be in a minute, anyway.”

“I can’t believe it’s you,” I say softly, and he tilts his head questioningly.

“You really had no idea?”

“Nope.”

“I thought I was so obvious.” He’s twisting his hands together, and I look at him properly for the first time.

He’s put his glasses back on, which frame his face nicely, and his eyes are a dark chocolate-brown underneath. His hair’s styled casually, and at the front, it’s thicker and curls slightly. His tan skin is smooth, and there’s a small mole just to the left of his Adam’s apple. He’s so pretty. I don’t know how I’ve never noticed it before, but I suppose I’ve never really bothered to look. But I’m looking now, and for some peculiar reason, I sort of want to cry.

“I was obvious, apparently,” I say with a nervous laugh, and he smiles and shakes his head.

“I think it was mostly wishful thinking, until everything went down, anyway.” This sentence sort of takes my breath away. He _wanted_ it to be me. “I got your email,” he adds, “but only, like, an hour ago. That’s why I was so late.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I can’t believe you rode the Rotor with me, though.”

“Well, I suppose I must really like you,” he says, and my god, I want to kiss him.

But I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I say, “I have to go home soon.” I’ve never been so disappointed about it. “I’m technically grounded until next weekend.”

“That sucks,” he says with feeling. “But I guess we’ve waited this long, we can survive another week, right?”

“You might be able to,” I say ruefully. He laughs, and it’s soft and happy and genuine, and it might be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. “I have to ask,” I say, finally venturing the question that’s been plaguing my mind for the best part of five months. “Why ‘Churro’?”

“My name,” he says simply. “Carlos Hugo Rodriguez. Then ‘one-nineteen’ – January 19th. My birthday.”

“God, I’m dumb,” I say, burying my face in one hand, and he laughs again.

“No, you’re not,” he says softly.

I glance down. “I really want to hold your hand,” I say, because I don’t know if he’s okay with us being affectionate in public. But he smiles, and opens his palm.

“Go on, then.” So I do. And this might just be the greatest night of my life.


	16. First Dates and Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb and Carlos go on their first official date, and a reunion occurs.

On Monday, I walk into English and make a beeline for my desk, before turning nearly 180 degrees in my seat so that I can talk to Carlos. He’s wearing an open denim jacket over a bright yellow t-shirt. It’s actually a really striking look, and he’s so freaking cute I can barely stand it. It’s almost physically painful. We’ve been talking all weekend (obviously) but despite all we’ve discussed, I suddenly have no idea what to say to him.

“Hi,” he says in his quiet voice, and it strikes me how much less confident he is here than he was at the carnival, when it was just us.

“Hey,” I say, trying to think of something smooth to say. All I can come up with is, “How did you find the homework?”

“Pretty easy,” he says with a smile. “You didn’t even do it, did you?”

“Nope.” He smiles, and there it is again – the bizarre, overwhelming urge to cry with happiness. “How did you know?”

“I know you,” he says simply, and it’s weird, because he’s right. We’ve sat at the same lunch table for over two years, but I think we’ve talked and texted more in the last three days than we have in that whole time we’ve known each other (anonymous emails excluded, obviously). Mr Mazzara calls for our attention, and I have to turn around, as little as I want to.

As I’m packing up at the end of the lesson, Nini passes my desk and whispers, “I didn’t know you and Carlos were so close.” I’m pretty sure I start hardcore blushing, and she sticks her tongue at me as she hurries off to catch up with Ricky.

“What was that?” Carlos asks, appearing at my shoulder, his pretty eyes half-narrowed in playful suspicion.

“She doesn’t miss a trick,” I say wryly. “Do you mind?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “They’d find out soon enough anyway. You’re not great at keeping secrets.”

“That’s not true,” I protest, and he just raises an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling.

Unfortunately, English is our only class together in the mornings, so I don’t see Carlos again until lunch. I’m on my way to the cafeteria when I hear my name being called. “Seb!” I turn to see him jogging towards me, and I can’t help smiling. It sounds weird, but I love hearing him say my name. “So, I had an idea.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

“What if we went off-campus for lunch today?” he says. He looks a little nervous, but there’s mischief in his eyes I’m not used to. It’s very un-Carlos-like. Or maybe it’s not, and this is what he’s like when you know him better.

“But… only seniors are allowed off-campus,” I say, and he sort of does a half-shrug.

“Do security know that you’re not a senior?”

“No,” I say, starting to see where he’s going with this.

“Me neither,” he grins. “So there’s no problem. Are you down?”

“I’m not prone to rule-breaking, but what the hell,” I say. “I had no idea you were such a rebel.”

“And I had no idea you were such a square,” he shoots back, nudging me teasingly with his shoulder, and my jaw sort of drops open.

“ _Carlos!_ ” I splutter, and he bursts out laughing again.

His car is adorable. It’s a little old hatchback, with only two doors, but it’s spotless, inside and out. The dark brown leather that lines the gearshift and glovebox is in immaculate condition, and the only thing that could even be considered clutter is a single reusable water bottle in one of the cup holders. It’s very _him_. As I’m looking around, he unlocks his iPod and passes it to me, along with the aux cord.

“Spotify’s in the entertainment folder,” he says, and I can’t help smiling, because of course everything’s organised into folders. “Play anything you like.” I wonder momentarily if he realises that letting someone look through your music is like handing them your soul on a plate. I scroll through his playlists, smiling: he has excellent taste, as it turns out: it’s an eclectic collection of soft rock, indie, a few pop songs, and a single guilty pleasure song by One Direction. And, with no exceptions, at least one song by every artist or from the soundtrack of every musical I’ve ever mentioned in one of my emails. Just when I thought I couldn’t love him more. I find the Elton John song that inspired my email, and he chuckles when he recognises the introduction. “Nice choice.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see two messages from Nini. _Where are you??_ The second one, sent barely two minutes later, reads _, Huh, Carlos isn’t here either… what a coincidence ;)_

I smile, and resolve to answer her later. “Thanks,” I say with a grin. “So where are we going?”

“Secret,” he says, and I have a momentary flashback to the last Friday night, when someone else wouldn’t tell me where she was driving. Unlike that time, though, I have absolutely no qualms about the destination he has in mind, whatever that may be.

All the same, I’m a little surprised when we pull up outside a convenience store and Carlos switches off the engine. I give him a curious look, and he smiles mysteriously. I follow him in. “So what are we here for?” I ask. He ponders for a moment.

“Head to dairy,” he says, “and find two small bottles of milk.” I’m now completely mystified, but I do as he says, then we meet at the cash register. He’s carrying a box of chocolate-chip cookies and a large tub of salted caramel sauce. “Lunch,” he says simply

He’s the _best_.

He insists on paying, which I feel a little bad about since he also drove us here, but he won’t hear my offers to split the cost, stating firmly that it was his idea, so I shouldn’t have to pay.

“Fine,” I say, “but since I’m pretty sure this is a date, I’m paying next time.” He blushes slightly when the young woman at the cash register smiles, but he nods and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“Sure.” Which confirms that it is indeed a date. Holy shit. When we get back to the car, I’m so freaking hyped, I can barely sit still. I bounce my leg the whole time, as Carlos drives out to the park on the eastern edge of the city. Shifting the grocery bag into his left hand, he offers me his right, just like Friday night, and I take it, lacing our fingers together. Apparently we’ve already picked sides. I’m totally okay with this. “Over there?” he suggests, lifting the bag and pointing to a large oak tree a little way off the path. I nod, and he frowns up at the gathering clouds.

“Shame we might freeze to death while we’re out here,” I say, and he nods wryly and shivers.

“The forecast was good,” he says, and he sounds so disappointed that I squeeze his hand. “It seemed like a good idea when I was planning it.”

“It’s perfect. So what if we catch pneumonia?” I add, and he grins.

We huddle together under the tree (primarily for warmth, but also because we want to), breath turning to smoke clouds in the cold January air, dipping cookies into caramel sauce as if this is a totally normal thing for two seventeen-year-olds to be doing. We talk, too, as easily as we emailed, but with new topics that were off-limits before, like stupid things our friends have done, and what happened in our classes. He also pulls a sonogram picture from his wallet of what will eventually become Baby Gabriel Rodriguez-Sylvester.

“Ugh, that was so good,” he says as the last of the cookies disappears. “You were so right about salted caramel.”

“Mm-hm,” I say, licking my lips subconsciously. I see him glance down at them, and I know what he’s thinking.

He looks back up, his big dark eyes searching me, seeking permission, so I nod. Almost instantly, as if he can’t hold back the urge any longer, Carlos leans in, turning his head ever so slightly and closing his eyes. I copy him, and I feel his lips on mine, and my breath catches in my throat. Cold as we are, his lips are warm and soft, and he tastes sweet as they part slightly. He moves slowly, carefully, and I feel the frame of his glasses brush my face, just below my eyebrow. He lets out a soft, barely-audible sigh, and I press into him more, desperate for his touch after all this time. I’m pretty sure I’ve died, and this is what heaven is. When we finally pull apart, we both break into a smile, and I lean my forehead against his.

“I love you,” he whispers, and I can’t resist kissing him again.

“I love you too.”

The moment is broken as something cold lands on my cheek. I look up to see that it’s started snowing, thick white flakes falling all around us. I brush one off his hair, and he shivers.

“Time to go?” he suggests, and I get up quickly. I’ve only just realised that I’m absolutely freezing. We load our trash into the grocery bag (we’re not animals), then I offer him my hand again, which he readily accepts. “So… what now?” I glance at the clock on my phone.

“I mean, lessons start again in, like, ten minutes, so we should – ”

“No,” he interrupts with a soft laugh. “No, I mean, about us.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling more than a little foolish. “Right. Obviously. Well, I mean, what do you want?”

“I want in,” he says, and grimaces, perhaps at the bluntness of this statement. “I mean, if you want to.”

“Me too,” I say, knowing what he means. “I want to be your boyfriend, if you do.”

“I want that too.” He smiles, and he looks excited and hopeful and nervous all at once.

“Cool,” I say, slightly breathlessly. As if that one word is sufficient to express how I’m feeling.

I spend the rest of the day as if in a trance, my mind focused entirely on my boyfriend. My _boyfriend_. I can hardly believe it. Nini practically begs me to tell her where we went over lunch, but all I tell her is that Carlos and I had our first date. I feel like it was a private affair, and I’d like to keep it just between me and him. She’s still ridiculously excited about it though, and although the attention is a little overwhelming, it’s balanced out by the fact that she also hardly stops talking about Ricky. I guess we’re even.

It’s weird being able to go straight home after school, with no rehearsal to attend. It’s also weird that Heather doesn’t come with me, when I always give her a lift outside of show season. When I get home, though, there’s a message waiting for me from Carlos. _Happy three-day anniversary!!!!_

I laugh, and type a quick reply. _Miss you soooooo much!!!_

“You’re cheerful today,” my mom says, in her ‘what are you hiding’ voice.

“Had a good day,” I say, completely truthfully.

“Hmm,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Collect the eggs, would you?” I begrudgingly agree; this is why I liked rehearsals: I almost never had to help out on the farm. I’m kidding. Mostly.

At precisely six-thirty, something absolutely monumental happens. Carlos Rodriguez’s Facebook relationship status updates, from “Single” to “In a Relationship”. Following his lead, thirteen minutes later, so does Sebastian Matthew-Smith’s. immediately I get messages from Ricky ( _WHAT_ ), Nini ( _Call me NOW!!!_ ), Heather ( _what the FUCK_ ) and half a dozen people from the show. I don’t reply to anyone, but I drop another message to Carlos. Apparently I’m already that guy that talks to his boyfriend while ignoring his friends. _Big news on Facebook tonight, huh?_

He texts back almost immediately: _We have to make sure we mark our anniversary every Friday, of course._

I laugh aloud, and my dad looks up and raises an eyebrow. _And every Monday for our first kiss, of course._

Before he has a chance to reply, the front door closes and Heather appears, her eyes wide and fixed on me. I grin and glance out of the window, doing a double-take as I recognise the car. It’s Gina’s. I sprint to the door, but I get intercepted.

“Where do you think you’re going?” my mom says sharply.

“I have to talk to Gina,” I say desperately, pulling on my shoes.

“I don’t think so. You’re still on lockdown, remember?”

“Please,” I say desperately. “This is really, really important.”

She folds her arms. “I’m willing to bargain.” My mind goes blank. “You can go to see Gina, in exchange for ten minutes on your Facebook account.”

“Five,” I counter. “Under direct supervision.”

“Deal,” she says, holding out a hand for me to shake. “But I’m going to need to see at least two pictures of your new boyfriend.” Good freaking lord, did Heather already text her? I’m going to kill her.

“Fine,” I call through the door as it closes behind me. I pull open the passenger door of Gina’s car and slide in next to her. She looks at me as if I’ve killed her entire family.

“What the hell?” she says. “Get the fuck out of my car!”

“No,” I say, buckling the seatbelt to prove the point. “Not until we’ve talked.”

“Well, that’ll be quick, then,” she shrugs, “because I have nothing to say to you.”

“Gina, this is ridiculous,” I say. “What, are we just… not gonna be friends anymore? Because I spent one night with Ricky and Nini, and we didn’t tell you about it?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she says coldly. “Make this about Nini. After all, everything else fucking is, isn’t it, Seb?” This throws me slightly, and she keeps going, which is odd for someone who has nothing to say to me. “She shows up here, all smart and fun and pretty, and immediately she’s everyone’s best friend? And Ricky’s obviously drooling over her? I mean, it’s fine, I get it,” she goes on, her voice dripping with venom. “She’s like the ideal upgrade, right?”

“For God’s sake,” I say, rubbing my temple.

“Why the fuck would any of you need me?”

“Gina. _You’re_ my best friend. You all are! But just because Nini’s my friend doesn’t mean you’re, like, less my friend! It’s not like dividing up a pie!”

“Yeah? Well, if you apparently like us all the same, then why did you come out to her first?” she shouts suddenly, then bites her lip. I know she’s pissed, but I can tell she wasn’t planning on saying that. “I didn’t mean that,” she adds immediately. “I don’t have a right to be angry about that.”

“You have every right to be angry,” I say gently. “Firstly, I’m so, so sorry we ditched you that Friday. I know it doesn’t change the fact that we were total assholes… but… but I have thought about it every day for the last ten days, and feel just as bad about it now as I did then.” She says nothing, which I take as permission to continue. “As for coming out to Nini first… the honest truth is that it was easier.”

“Why?” she asks quietly. “Did you think I wouldn’t be okay with it?”

“Of course not! But, you know, you… as you get to know people,” I say slowly, trying to think of how best to explain, “you build up a picture of them. And the longer and better you know them, the harder that picture is to change, you know?” She tilts her head, considering this. “It was easier to tell Nini because her picture of me wasn’t that strong, so there was less to change. But with you and me, and Ricky, actually…” She bristles slightly at the mention of his name, but says nothing. “…there’s so much… I don’t know, history. You guys know everything about me. Snacks and musicals. Twizzlers and ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’.” She cracks a smile. “Does that make sense?”

“I guess so,” she says thoughtfully. “I suppose the longer you sit with shit, the harder it is to talk about.”

“Exactly.” We’re quiet for a moment. “Gina?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened with your dad?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.”

“I have absolutely no idea,” she says simply. “He and my mom were together for three years, then, when she got pregnant with me, he immediately bailed and moved to Delaware.” I’ve known her for, like, six years, and I have never heard her say those words before.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“It’s fine,” she shrugs. “It’s whatever. It’s not like I can miss him.”

“I’ve missed you,” I say, and my voice breaks.

“Don’t you fucking cry,” she warns. “You know when you cry, I cry, and that’s not happening right now.” But I can’t cope. All the wildly conflicting emotions from the last two weeks well up at once, and I burst into tears. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she tuts, pulling me into a hug and letting me sob into her shoulder. I hear her sniff a few moments later. “I came to the show, by the way. You were awesome. You all were.”

“I love you so much,” I say into her cardigan. “You know that, right?” She doesn’t speak, as she’s definitely crying too, but I feel her nod. Eventually I sit up and sniff, and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. She pulls out a handkerchief and wipes her own face.

“Hay fever,” she says, sniffing again.

“Gina, it’s January,” I say with a watery laugh. She half-scowls at me, but can’t help smiling.

“Shut up and tell me about your boyfriend.”

**_From:_ ** _elijah_joseph@gmail.com_  
**_To:_ ** _time.on.my.hands@gmail.com  
_ _February 1 st, 7:23pm_

_Hey Sebastian,_

_I know you definitely don’t want to hear from me, and I don’t know if you’re even using this email account anymore, but I really wanted to have a chance to apologise, and also to explain myself. Not to justify what I did, because I know it was wrong, really wrong, but just… I don’t know. I just really hate myself for what I did, and I want to try and make it right._

_First off, you were right: I was blackmailing you, and it took telling Nini about it to realise it. She’s an awesome friend for you, and she… well, let’s just say she told me in no uncertain terms that what I did was disgusting. And yes, I liked her, but I should never have taken advantage of your friendship with her to try and make something happen which I see now would never have worked out._

_Second, I’m so fucking sorry about the Instagram confession. I never planned to. In truth – and I know this doesn’t excuse it – I was just in a really weird place when I sent it in. You know how I told you that my brother’s gay? He came out last spring, and it came as kind of a shock, but we wanted to be supportive, so we went to SLC Pride, but he wasn’t even here, he was visiting a college friend in Ohio. We sent him pictures, and I think he was a bit weirded out. Then when he came home for Christmas, he and I got into this big fight, and I guess I took it out on you, which was totally unfair._

_When you yelled at me in the parking lot – which I fully deserved, by the way – you said that I’d stolen something from you by outing you. I think about that at least once a day, because I really do feel like I took something big. I really wish the words “I’m sorry” carried more weight, because I just can’t seem to find the words to tell you how much I regret what I’ve done to you over the last few months._

_I also hear on the grapevine that you have a new boyfriend, which is freaking awesome, dude. I don’t know if you believe me, but I’m genuinely so happy for you, and that something good came out of my utter clusterfuck. Mr Carlos Rodriguez is one lucky guy, because you are genuinely a ray of fucking sunshine, and don’t you forget it. And as a side note, I never told you how absolutely goddamn spectacular you were as Lumière._

_If by any chance you’re still reading, just know that if I could do everything again, I’d just blackmail you into being my friend and leave it at that._

_Your (hopefully one day) friend, EJ_


	17. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months later, with the prospect of prom looming, Seb, Carlos and their friends attend a surprising talent show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a road this has been! Thanks to everyone for reading - I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**_FOUR MONTHS LATER_ **

* * *

The school talent show is one of the highlights of the year, along with homecoming, the musical and prom. It’s taken way less seriously than any of those, though, and it’s always a good time. Mostly because a lot of the time, calling it a _talent_ show is overstating it a little. Nini’s in it, though, so obviously Ricky’s going, and the rest of us guys are going in support. And, of course, because we want to sit at the back and laugh when things inevitably go wrong. What is weird, though, is that when I never really got a straight answer when I asked Gina if she and her friends wanted to join us, so I guess they’re giving it a miss.

It’s scheduled to start at seven, so Ricky and I arrive about ten minutes beforehand. Carlos already texted me (because obviously we have each other’s numbers now, which is the greatest thing in the world) to say that he and Big Red are already there, and that they’re saving us a seat. As we’re walking in, Ricky says curiously, “Is that your parents?” I follow his gaze, and realise with some alarm that he’s right. What the hell are they doing here?

“Look away,” I murmur through gritted teeth. “Don’t make eye contact.” My period of house arrest might be over, but I still don’t really want to be seen with them in public, especially when I’ve come to hang out with my friends and my boyfriend.

Speaking of whom, we went out for dinner with my parents and siblings a couple of weeks ago. From my perspective, it was pretty fun (if a little awkward), but I think he was a little overwhelmed – if nothing else, by the sheer number of people. I imagine five kids and two parents is no freaking picnic for someone who’s lived most of his life with just his mom.

Now, though, I see Carlos twisting round in his seat, looking for us. I raise a hand, and he beams.

“Now who’s the disgusting couple?” Ricky teases, nudging me with his elbow.

“Piss off,” I grin. I was right about him and Nini, by the way. Just for the record. We ‘excuse us’ and ‘sorry’ our way down the crowded row to the two empty seats.

“Hello,” Carlos says quietly, smiling at me.

“Did you get a program?” Ricky asks before I can reply, leaning forward and talking to Big Red over us.

“Yeah, here you go,” he says, passing it down the line. I roll it up and thwack Ricky on the head with it, earning a cry of protest which makes us all laugh.

“When’s Nini on?” Carlos asks.

“Second to last,” Ricky says, scanning the glossy paper.

“We should have come at the interval,” I say drily.

“There isn’t one,” Big Red says, like it’s obvious.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Ricky says with a grin. “Think you can last longer than _Star Wars_?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” On _one occasion_ we went to the movie theatre and I had to leave to pee twice. It wasn’t my fault. I pinch his funny bone, hard, and he lets out a small shriek just as the house lights dim, and a hush falls over the audience. The rest of us press our fists to our mouths, trying not to laugh.

Honestly, it’s pretty dreadful. Ninety percent of the acts are freshman and sophomore girls performing songs by Rihanna or Taylor Swift, broken up by a stand-up comedian who never quite nails the concept of comedic timing, and a magic act that fails spectacularly when he falls through the trapdoor positioned for his assistant. Ricky laughs so hard that he has to leave the auditorium to calm down.

After an hour and a half of this pandemonium, though, he turns to me and whispers excitedly, “This is it, it’s her!” Gross they might be, but I have to admit that they are cute together. As they clear the stage from the last act, I notice Carlos’ hand resting on his knee. I bite my lip and reach for it, resting my hand on top of his. He smiles and turns it over so I can lace our fingers together. He scrunches his nose at me, and I grin back, before turning my attention back to what’s going on onstage. Nini just walked out, and there’s a girl I don’t recognise sitting at the piano. I suddenly feel weirdly protective, which is insane, because it’s not _my_ piano. I just genuinely thought that I’m the only one who ever uses it.

Anyway, the girl starts to play, and I see Nini take a deep breath. I was imagining that she’d sing, but she doesn’t. She dances – slow, sweeping movements, which seem to flow from one to the other without breaking, as the pianist plays a gentle, peaceful rendition of ‘Every Step You Take’ by The Police. As creepy as the song’s lyrics are, it’s a surprisingly pleasant piece without them, and Nini’s dance is so graceful, simple and genuinely expressive that the whole audience holds a captivated silence for the song’s duration, a feat which hasn’t actually occurred once the entire evening. As the pianist plays her last notes, and lets the music fade to nothingness, the audience strikes up an astonished applause. A few people, Ricky included, even cheer. Nini just has time to offer us a secretive smile before the curtains close in front of her.

“Wow,” Ricky breathes, and I ruffle his hair fondly. Onstage, a few members of student government have walked on and are talking about fundraisers. Or something like that. I’m not really listening – I’m thinking of Carlos, and gazing happily at our linked hands.

“You okay?” he whispers, and I nod.

“Yeah.” It doesn’t express everything I want to say, but he knows. He’s read the emails. I glance up as a cymbal sounds behind the curtain, and is hurriedly silenced. If I had to guess, I’d say it sounds like a band is setting up. “Who’s next?” I ask Ricky, and he skims through the program again.

“The Rock and Rollettes,” he says.

“Nice,” I say, appreciating the play on ‘the Roquettes’. The student representatives have finished, and walk off the stage to unenthusiastic applause.

Finally the curtains open, and there are five students on stage. It’s a comic scene: all four of our mouths involuntarily fall open when we realise who the students are. Gina’s sitting at the drumkit, her hair held up in a massive bun by a bright red ribbon. It’s quite the look. Ashlyn is standing in front of an electric keyboard, and Kourtney’s holding a bass guitar, of all things. Another junior girl I don’t know too well (Marcia? Marissa? something like that) is on lead vocals, but the lead guitar is the biggest shock of all. It’s Heather, dressed in ripped navy denim overalls and a white sweater, with a bright green bandanna tied around her neck. Somehow she looks more badass than I’ve ever seen her.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, and Carlos lets out a silent huff of laughter at my reaction. “Did you know about this?” I ask, leaning over to Ricky. He shakes his head.

“No, how could I?” Gina clicks her sticks together to count them in, and they launch into the first song, and basically all of our jaws drop all over again.

They’re fucking _remarkable_.

It’s a nearly flawless cover of ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’, which leads straight into a high-tempo rendition of ‘Does Your Mother Know’ by ABBA, with Kourtney pounding out the kickass bass intro. Next up, again without stopping, is ‘Crocodile Rock’, then they go into ‘Hard Day’s Night’ without missing a beat.

“Fuck me,” Ricky murmurs, impressed, as they launch into the fourth song, barely breaking a sweat. The combination of songs is so familiar to me, and I can’t place why until they start transition neatly into ‘Bad Romance’ by Lady Gaga. This was the songlist that I found on the piano that one time. So _that’s_ why it was there. Jesus, that means they’ve been practising for months. That’s when it clicks – that’s where Heather’s been going all this time, and why Gina brought her to my house when we made up.

They finish their set with a crash of chords and cymbals, and the audience _riots_. They’re legitimately the best act any of our school’s talent shows has ever seen, and literally the entire auditorium is on their feet, cheering and whistling. They step forward, join hands at the front of the stage and bow. I don’t think I’ve seen Gina or Heather look so happy before.

We ambush them as they come down from the stage door, crushing them all in a massive group hug.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Big Red says enthusiastically, as Ricky wraps his arms around Nini and kisses her as if he’ll never get the chance again.

“You were _awesome_ ,” I say, throwing one arm over Gina’s shoulder and squeezing gently. She glances over at Ricky and Nini, and shrugs.

“Yeah, we were,” she agrees, to general laughter.

“I didn’t know you played,” Nini says, and Gina looks at her and genuinely smiles. Christmas has come early, apparently.

“I’ve been teaching myself,” she says, more modestly.

“And you!” I say to Heather, punching her lightly in the arm. “I didn’t know you were playing again, you were fantastic.”

“Alright, don’t make it weird,” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased. I see her glance some way behind me, and I turn around to see a black-haired boy approaching her. “Hold on,” she says to me, then steps past me to hug him. He lifts her up and spins her around, and kisses her as she returns to earth.

“You were incredible,” he says, and she smiles.

“Thanks,” she replies, then gestures to me.

“You must be Samuel,” I say cautiously.

“Sam,” he says with a shrug. “But yeah, that’s me. You must be Sebastian.” I’d like to think he doesn’t know who I am because of the cafeteria debacle, but I know better.

“You’d better be good to her,” I say, and Heather scowls at me.

“What, because you’ll beat me up?” Sam says, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” I say, amused by his nerve. “Because she will.” I nod at Heather, who rolls her eyes and laughs.

“Whatever,” she says. “Come on,” she adds to Sam, taking his hand and wandering off.

“Girls, eh?” Carlos says quietly, slipping his hand into mine and giving it a subtle squeeze.

“Tell me about it,” I say gravely, and he chuckles.

Once everything dies down and the chaperones start ushering us out of the auditorium, Carlos and I wander in the direction of my car, chatting and laughing about various mishaps from the evening.

As I pull up to his house, he hesitates before getting out of the passenger seat, and I glance over, raising an eyebrow to ask if he’s okay. He smiles, and his lips part with a gentle pop.

“So, prom’s next week,” he says, and my heart rate picks up a little, in a strange cocktail of anxiety and excitement, as it’s a topic we’ve both been avoiding.

There are a lot of things we have a sort of mutual, unspoken understanding over, the most significant being our level of physical contact at school. The vast majority of people in our grade know that we’re dating – or at least, everyone who’s friends with both of us on Facebook has probably worked it out. That aside, Carlos isn’t really out publicly, not in the same way that I am (thanks again, EJ), and I think the horrific memory of the two boys in the cafeteria that time is still very prevalent in our minds.

Anyway, what I mean by all this is that we don’t really go in for public displays of affection, and because of that, I think we’re both a little apprehensive about the idea of going to prom as a couple.

Now that he’s brought it up, though, that might be about to change.

“I know we haven’t talked about it,” he continues, “but were you planning on going?”

“I haven’t decided.” I switch the engine off and reach across the gearshift to take his hand. “Were you?”

“Not without you.” He sort of shrugs, and bites his lip. “Do you want to go, you know, together?”

“Are you serious?” I ask, and I think he understands that I’m asking if he’s willing to basically go fully public.

“I think so,” he says, looking happy and nervous at the same time. “Do you want to?”

“You’re asking if I want to go to prom with my boyfriend?” A smile creeps onto my face. “What do you think?” He lets out a little laugh, and leans over to kiss me.

“It’s a date,” he says with a hesitant, expectant smile.

“Send me a picture when you’ve decided what you’re wearing.” I grin as he opens the door.

Wrought with excitement and slight apprehension, the next week seems to drag, with every day seeming to last for a month. There’s a new, nice atmosphere around school: we’re all acutely aware that we’re mere weeks away from summer vacation, and there’s a quiet hum of excitement that rings around the school hallways and classrooms. The auditorium’s being decorated, bedecked with red banners, ready for the seniors’ graduation. The football field has become a favourite hangout for relaxing in the sunshine during lunch breaks, or kicking a soccer ball around, the football season having long since ended. It’s weird to think that in a few short weeks, we’re going to be seniors, with thoughts of résumés, weekend jobs and college tours on the not-so-distant horizon.

Finally Saturday – prom day – arrives, and suddenly, somehow, there’s not enough time. I lay my outfit out on my bed and sort of just stand there in my underwear staring at it for a while, not quite ready to put it on. There’s a lot riding on tonight. Thankfully we’re more or less going as a group, even though a few of us are coupled up, as it were. Obviously Ricky and Nini are going, and I think Ashlyn and Kourtney are sort of bringing each other, as friends.

Gina told me last week she felt sorry for Big Red that both Carlos and Ricky were taking dates and he wasn’t, so she’s going with him (a ‘mate date’, she called it). I was surprised, to be honest. She and Big Red haven’t always seen eye to eye, but over the last couple of months, I think they’ve bonded over their best friends all getting into relationships. Even with that in mind, it’s an unusually magnanimous gesture, but he was very grateful, and I think she rather likes that they’ve sort of become friends.

A knock on my door shakes me out of my thoughts and I hastily call out, “I’m not dressed!”

“Well, hurry up,” my mom says, sounding exasperated. “I thought you wanted to leave at six?” I glance at my alarm clock and realise that’s only ten minutes away. Shit.

“I’ll be right there!” Where’s the time gone? Thank god I’ve already showered and brushed my teeth. I also shaved – I didn’t really need to, as I only have to about once a week, but I find it weirdly therapeutic, and it made me feel nice and clean.

I appraise my outfit one more time and smile. It’s actually new, and I’m really looking forward to breaking it in. When I told my mom last week that I was actually going to prom after all, she dropped everything and took me into the city to buy a new suit, as I haven’t worn one since my uncle’s wedding three years ago, which unsurprisingly no longer fits. We found it on a sale, and I’m lowkey in love with it: it’s wine red, paired with a black shirt and bow tie.

Nearly ten minutes later, I’m lacing up my shoes and hurrying downstairs, where my mom’s started the car. Fortunately she’s only driving me to Carlos’ – no one wants their parents taking them to prom – because she wants to take pictures of us together, which I guess is just my luck.

“How are you feeling?” she asks after we’ve been driving a few minutes.

“Fine,” I say, but perhaps it comes out a little clipped, because she raises a dubious eyebrow.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” she says gently, and I nod.

“Yeah, I know.”

“The other kids’ experiences will be different from yours,” she continues, “but that doesn’t make yours any less valuable.”

I look curiously at her. “I feel like you pulled that from a book. Probably titled, _How to Talk to Your Gay Kid_.”

“I might have read a few articles,” she says, sounding a little indignant. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No,” I admit. “Thanks, I guess.” Carlos and his mom are waiting on their front porch when we pull up, and I see him visibly bounce on the balls of his feet when he sees the car. It’s too much, he’s just so cute.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathlessly, as we approach.

“Hey.” It comes out quieter than I want to, because I’ve just this second realised that our moms have never actually met, but it turns out not to be too uncomfortable. In fact, they’re pretty friendly with each other, and they chat for a few minutes before they finally pull out their phones to take pictures of us. It’s cheesy, and maybe it’s a little forced, but it’s also kind of nice. And since I never imagined I would have an actual date to take to the junior prom, I’m not exactly complaining that I have someone to take pictures with.

Once our moms are satisfied, Carlos pulls out his car keys and smiles at me. “You ready to go?” I nod, looking him up and down happily. He’s wearing a navy suit, patterned with an intermittent floral design the same colour as my suit. Our ties match, too. He’s breathtaking.

“You, uh, clean up well,” I say, cringing slightly at my own awkwardness.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling appreciatively, apparently unfazed. “You do too.” He unlocks the car and gestures towards it. “Shall we?” I climb into the passenger seat, and before he buckles up his seatbelt, he turns and reaches into the backseat. “I almost forgot,” he says, retrieving two small cardboard boxes and handing me one.

“What’s this?”

“Look inside.” When I do, I find a small white rose. I look back at him to see him holding an identical one.

“Carlos,” I say softly, oddly overcome by this sweet, simple gesture. He takes his and beckons me to turn towards him, then slides the little rose into the buttonhole of my suit jacket, and passing me a pin to secure it in place. Unable to hold back the smile that’s fighting its way onto my face, I attach his, and he pins it down. This done, he leans over and kisses me, leaning on one hand and cradling my jaw with the other.

“Okay, now I’m ready.”

He drives us a little way out to the edge of the city, where there’s this old country house that groups can rent out for parties and conferences and stuff. And proms, apparently. The prom committee nailed their fundraising this year, and it really shows. We pull into the parking lot, and see Gina, Big Red, Kourtney and Ashlyn standing together. Suddenly nervous, I take Carlos’ hand, and we approach them, hugging them in turn and gushing over each other’s outfits. We agreed to wait and go in together, but ten minutes later, they still haven’t arrived, so Gina sends Nini a text to tell them that we’re going in.

We all sort of grind to a halt as we walk through the double doors into the big building, taking in the room. Big Red lets out a low whistle. I think we’re all a little blown away. School dances are always a little lame, but the prom committee fundraises and organises their own budget, and they’ve outdone themselves. The room’s been smartly decorated with purple and cream drapes and banners. There’s a dedicated dance floor (which at the moment is largely unoccupied), and the DJ doesn’t look like a college student who’s trying to make ends meet. The left wall is lined with tables with snacks and drinks, and people are mostly spread around the different tables, eating, talking and laughing.

“Nice,” Carlos says, so quietly that I don’t think anyone else hears, and I nod in contented agreement.

“We’re at table seven,” Gina says, glancing at the card we were given on the way in.

“Look,” Kourtney says, tapping her on the shoulder and pointing in the direction of the food table. “It’s Nini and Ricky!” She’s right – they’re sat there, waving to try and grab our attention.

“You guys are already here?” Ashlyn exclaims when we reach them, and take seats around the table.

“Yeah, we were waiting for you,” I add, fist-bumping Ricky and sitting down next to him, as Carlos takes a seat on the other side of me.

“Sorry,” Nini says, offering us a guilty grimace. “We were waiting too, but someone arrived we, uh, didn’t want to see.” She looks pointedly over at a table on the other side of the room where the water polo team are seated, laughing raucously about something EJ’s said.

“Oh,” I say, feeling more than a little disappointed. So much for the perfect evening. “Well, you’re forgiven,” I say drily to Ricky and Nini.

I’m not sure if I’ve forgiven EJ, or if I’ll ever fully be able to. He sent me a week or so after Carlos and I got together, explaining himself and apologising. While I suppose it was good of him to reach out and try to make amends, I don’t think this is going to be one of those idealistic situations where we put aside our differences and end up as best friends. Not least because my actual best friends don’t let him anywhere near me.

I told them all about what happened, eventually. Obviously Nini had already found out from EJ, then I told Carlos, and then Ricky and Gina a little while later. This resulted in a rather unfortunate series of events, which started with them being indescribably angry, and ended with Gina and Ricky being collectively suspended for three days. It took me a little while to discern exactly what happened, but it turned out they had cornered EJ behind the auditorium, shoved him into one of the school dumpsters and put bricks on the lid.

Carlos simply sat with me at my kitchen table and listened as I told him everything. Even though it was clear from the changes in his expression that he was absolutely furious at EJ, he didn’t lose his temper. He told me that he loved me, took my hand and promised me sincerely that he wouldn’t ever let anything like that happen to me again. I’ll freely admit that I cried that night.

Now though, he gently touches my arm and says, “We can go, if you want.”

“Hell, no,” I say, turning my eyes away from the water polo team and looking at my boyfriend instead. “He’s not ruining this for me too.”

“After all,” Carlos adds, “you’ve managed to avoid him for nearly four months. What’s one more night?” And he’s right, of course. “Want a drink?” he asks, and I nod.

“Uh, Sprite, if they have it? Thanks,” I say, and he rests a hand briefly on my shoulder as he passes behind my seat.

“He’s adorable,” Nini says, smiling at me from her place at Ricky’s other side.

“Yeah, I know,” I say fondly. Suddenly the song changes and Nini grabs Ricky’s arm excitedly.

“Oh my god, we have to dance to this one!”

“I don’t dance,” Ricky grumbles, and Nini tuts.

“You did at Halloween!”

“Yeah, but now he’s actually dating you,” I say, before Ricky can respond, “he doesn’t need to impress you anymore.” He swats at my head and grins at me.

“Gina?” Nini pleads, tilting her head in the direction of the dance floor, which is starting to fill up.

“Oh, alright,” she sighs, and allows Nini to pull her up and lead her out onto the dance floor, followed almost immediately by Big Red, Ashlyn and Kourtney, who form a little dance circle with the other Gina and Nini, bopping along to the music.

Carlos returns a minute or so later with two drinks, looking bemusedly at the nearly-empty table. “Did I miss the rapture?” he asks drily, making us chuckle.

“They’re out there. Thanks,” I say, pointing to the dance floor as he hands me a clear plastic cup with a dark red liquid in. “What’s this?”

“Their fruit punch,” he says, examining it sceptically. “Sorry, there wasn’t any Sprite.”

I sip it, and it’s not that bad. “No, it’s alright.”

He tries his own and grimaces. “You’re welcome to it,” he says, coughing slightly, and he pushes the cup towards me.

“Do you want something else?” I ask, standing up, but he catches my arm and stops me.

“I’ll get something when we get food.” He hesitates. “Can we dance instead?”

“Really?” I say doubtfully. I find dancing tricky when there’s no choreography I can follow.

“Oh, go on!” he says in a low voice. “I don’t ask for much,” he adds, teasing.

“And leave Bowen all on his own?” I say, half-joking. Carlos smiles, and there’s something about his expression that makes me stop worrying about EJ, or Ricky, or what people might think if they saw us dancing together. “Congrats on looking like a loner, dude,” I say, leaning over to Ricky as I stand up and offer Carlos my hand. I’m fully aware the song’s nearly over at this point, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.

We make our way over to the group, and they cheer, breaking the circle open to let us join in. Barely ten seconds later, Ricky appears, looking a little sheepish, and Nini and Kourtney make space between them so he can dance with us.

It’s more than a little cheesy – not least because the eight of us make up about a quarter of the people actually dancing – but actually, it’s nice to feel part of something with no drama and no stress. Just me, my friends and my boyfriend having a good time together.

Sure enough, the song ends less than a minute later, and transitions smoothly into a familiar introduction of a piano playing in waltz time. Most of our group drifts back towards the table with mentions of food buzzing around, but Carlos and I stay, and I also see Nini and Ricky break off from the group and start slow-dancing together. After seeking permission in the form of a silent nod, he slips an arm around my waist and holds up a hand; smiling, I mirror his movements, taking his hand as he guides us, stepping in slow time and turning gradually to the music. I lean in to kiss his cheek, and hear him quietly humming along with the melody.

_And I guess that’s why they call it the blues  
_ _Time on my hands could be time spent with you  
_ _Laughing like children, living like lovers_  
_Rolling like thunder, under the covers  
_ _And I guess that’s why they call it the blues…_

“Did you request this?” I ask curiously, and he nods with a grin. “I thought so. Odd coincidence otherwise,” I add, and he laughs.

“I’m glad we came,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” I say happily. “Me too.”

As Carlos pulls his car up outside my house, it’s obvious that there are only two lights on, in the kitchen and in Heather’s bedroom. We slip in quietly through the back door into the empty kitchen, laughing softly about Gina ‘accidentally’ splashing EJ as she drove through a puddle on the way out of the parking lot. I tug at my bow tie, undoing the knot and leaving the two sides hanging down the front of my shirt, feeling rather like a rich gentleman in an old movie. Then I thumb the top button of my shirt open and rub my neck.

“God,” I mutter with a sigh of relief. “Why do we have to have prom in May when it’s too warm to be wearing a suit?”

“I guess the only solution is to take it off,” Carlos says, a sly, mischievous smile creeping onto his face. I can feel myself blushing – he can be so surprisingly flirtatious at times, but it always catches me off guard and leaves me slightly flustered.

“Stop it,” I say reprovingly, but he can tell I’m teasing, and he grins as he loosens his own tie and collar. I go to the fridge, and ask, “You thirsty?”

“Yes,” he says, “but I don’t really want anything to drink.”

It’s still there, the cheeky almost-laugh in his voice, and I turn to look at him, scandalised. “ _Stop_ ,” I say, unable to stop myself from giggling. He grins, crossing the kitchen, pushing me back up against the fridge and pressing his lips to mine. I let out a muffled ‘ow’, and he pulls back, suddenly concerned.

“What’s wrong?” Grimacing, I reach behind my head and pull out a hard plastic fridge magnet, which just pressed itself into the back of my skull. “Oh, Seb, I’m so sorry,” he says, but he’s biting his lips to keep from laughing.

“All good,” I murmur, tossing aside the offending magnet and tugging at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close as our lips meet, more gently this time. “Want to go upstairs?” I ask softly when we separate again, and he nods.

I lead him up the two flights of stairs to my room, and immediately we shut the door, and I press into him, kissing him desperately as he leans back against it.

“I love you,” I murmur between kisses, and I mean it. I don’t think I’ve ever meant it more. He smiles, and brushes my hair off my forehead.

“Love you too,” he says gently, before pressing his lips against mine again. My tongue grazes his teeth, and taste fruit and the salt of the potato chips we shared. I feel him thumbing at the buttons of my jacket, and I shrug it off and discard it onto my desk, not breaking the kiss for a second. He lets out the softest sigh I’ve ever heard, and I lead him forward so I can help him take off his own suit jacket. Despite my best efforts, I can’t work out how to undo his tie properly with my eyes close, and we both chuckle gently as I loosen it as much as I can, lifting the loop over his head.

Carlos starts to unbutton his shirt, and my heart starts beating so hard against my ribcage that I’m pretty sure he can hear it. He untucks the thin undershirt from his pants, and we set to work at my own shirt. With no undershirt of my own, I can soon feel his cool, soft fingers against my skin, and it sends a shiver down my spine. He glances down, and I’m surprised to find that I don’t feel nervous.

I’ve just grabbed the hem of his t-shirt when there’s a soft knock at the bedroom door. I curse under my breath, and he looks at me in alarm. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even tell my parents he was staying over. He grabs our dress shirts and shoves them under my duvet, while I seize a hoodie from the back of my desk chair and tug it on, before casually pulling the door open. My mom, pyjama-clad and clutching a glass of water, raises an eyebrow when she notices Carlos.

“I thought I heard you,” she says. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, it was fun,” I say, suddenly realising how suspicious we must look, both of us standing there in our smart pants, but with a hoodie and a t-shirt respectively, especially since I haven’t even taken off my shoes.

“Good,” she says, her voice neutral, giving very little away. “Well, I’m going back to bed. Good night, boys.”

“’Night,” we chorus, closing the door as she goes back down the stairs. Once we’re sure she’s gone, Carlos and I look at each other and grin a little sheepishly. She definitely suspected that something was up. No doubt she and I will be having our own conversation on The Importance of Safe Sex.

There is also no doubt that, despite their promise, it will very much be a big deal. But then again, maybe coming out is a big deal.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If so, please leave a comment with your thoughts, or favourite parts, or emojis, or anything!
> 
> Also, my Tumblr is @tea-for-one-please, please hit me up on there if you'd like, I love getting asks about my writing, or my process, or anything!


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